Civil Disobedience
by JayEz
Summary: Alpha Mycroft Holmes is the most influential man in the Empire – and he will not let the fact that his brother was born an omega change that. Sherlock has been living as an Alpha his entire live. It doesn't pose a problem – until a unit of the Reformist movement led by Captain John Watson kidnaps him and denies Sherlock his meds. Johnlock Omegaverse. Full summary&warnings inside!
1. The Hostage

**CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE**

**Summary: **In a world where social status is determined by Alpha/Beta/omega dynamics and the American Revolution never succeeded, the British Empire is the biggest superpower. Omegas occupy the lowest step on the social ladder and are used as slaves and cheap workers. Betas can lead normal lives – though once convicted of a crime, they are stripped off their rights. Alphas hold the highest positions in government and the regime's powerful military.

Alpha Mycroft Holmes is the most influential man in the Empire – and he will not let the fact that his brother was born an omega change that. Sherlock has been living as an Alpha his entire live. It doesn't pose a problem – until a unit of the Reformist movement led by Captain John Watson kidnaps him and denies Sherlock his meds.

**Warnings: **A/B/O dynamics, dub-con due to heat cycles, slavery, torture, graphic depictions of violence

**Author's Notes:** This is the product of me studying for a Social and Cultural Anthropology test at university. I never did get around to do that much studying, but I got an A/B/o Slavery AU out of it :). I am rather proud of this one, so please, be gentle with ConCrit…

Thanks so much to merlenhiver for the last, beautiful beta job she did before a longer break from beta-reading! Another THANK YOU goes to Iriya, my beta for part II of this verse, who has taken the time and Brit-picked this part as well (and corrected some mistakes left while she was at it).

xXx

**Chapter 1: The Hostage**

John slows his breathing, adjusts the projectile, and pulls the trigger.

The tranquilizer hits the man right in the carotid artery, releasing the chemicals into the Alpha's bloodstream. He drops like a sack of potatoes.

"Alpha One down. Proceed," John orders his unit through the com line.

Five people move in unison towards the house's back door. John steps over the body next to the rubbish bins and follows his team.

Lubitsch opens the door and John peers into the room. Empty.

A brief gesture, into the next room, also vacant, through the hallway, then – voices.

Wife and daughter. Two shots necessary.

John and Lubitsch share a look, Wilder kicks the door open and then they are inside and the two Alphas drop to the wooden floor, unconscious.

John activates his com-line again. "Lion to Eagle. Alphas are down. Ready for extraction in two minutes."

"Understood, Lion," Irene Adler's voice answers.

The unit proceeds into the cellar and quickly finds who they are looking for: The family's six omega slaves – no, five omegas, one Beta, the scent is telling John – are bound to the wall.

The Beta seems a bit weak but otherwise unharmed, the women on the other hand have sustained a heavy beating. The youngest girl, perhaps 17 years old, sports a collar of bruises along her neck. The image and its implications chase a shiver down John's spine.

He has seen it often. Usually, Alphas treat their omegas fairly well; they are fed and clothed. Sometimes, however, they encounter families who would mistreat their slaves, exploit them sexually until their injuries made them useless as workers, and the family had them put down.  
Any Alpha can put a bullet in an omega's brain and not lose sleep over it. Legally, omegas have no rights. They are property of the government or of private owners.

"Shh," John says and approaches the group of omegas with his hands held high. They smell his Alpha status; he can see the fear in their eyes. "I'm not here to hurt you. I'm Captain John Watson of the Reformists. We heard about your owners torturing you. We're here to free you."

"Free us?" the girl croaks and John makes a mental note to have her checked for internal injuries. She apparently was the man's favourite.

"Yes. We'll take you back to our base. You will have a mattress, warm water, and plenty to eat. My friends will unchain you now, alright?"

He nods at Lubitsch and Wilder who crouch down to release the six people.

xXx

Once he has tended to their injuries and provided them with clothes, John leaves the slaves in the care of another comrade who would find them a place to sleep and a warm meal.

Their base of operation is located underground, getting in is impossible if you don't know where to search for the entrance. They are well equipped thanks to a few wealthy supporters in terms of food, clothing, medical and military supplies.

Still, the absence of windows always reminds John of the cellar in his family's house, cold, dark, unwelcoming.

People try very hard to make HQ comfortable by decorating the rooms or painting walls, but in the past weeks the Empire has been closing in and the atmosphere has become tense.  
Panic is in the air.

"Well done, Captain." A sombre voice shakes John out of his reverie and he finds himself face to face with Homi Bhabha, one of the three leaders of the Reformist movement.

"Thank you, sir."

Two omegas John recognizes as recently rescued slaves do a double take when they hear an obvious Alpha like John call an omega like Bhabha "sir".

"Adler, Thoreau and I are very satisfied. The SAS hasn't found any traces of us, according to our sources."

"Good."

Homi Bhabha possesses a calm that claims respect, a passion for their cause that claims loyalty and is – above all – an advocate of non-violent resistance. It is thanks to Bhabha taking a stand with Adler and Thoreau that John uses tranquillisers and not real bullets.

"Sir, I hear rumours about the SAS closing in on our location." It is neither a question nor a statement and Bhabha's reaction is telling John all he needs to know.

He swallows. "So it would seem." He doesn't say more.

xXx

"I'm not your puppet, Mycroft."

Sherlock's defiant gaze would have reduced lesser men to a cowering mess. Mycroft is no such man, however.

"No, but you are reliant on my help with certain, ah, issues."

Sherlock winces almost unnoticeably. Mycroft should feel guilty, he guesses, for using his brother's genetic make-up as a means of blackmail, but he is dealing with matters of international importance.

"It's a boring case."

"That flash drive contained invaluable information on secret developments."

"Then putting it on such a device wasn't a very smart move by your employees."

"Believe me, Sherlock, heads have rolled." Mycroft is speaking only half-figuratively. Heads might not have rolled, but the perpetrator is dead none the less. One less Beta in the world hardly matters. That flash drive on the other hand…

"So we have a deal?"

His brother draws a deep breath that is shaking with barely contained anger. At the end of it, however, he nods curtly.

Mycroft hands him the file.

"Make this your priority." Sherlock turns with a flourish of his coat. "Oh, and brother?" Sherlock merely makes an acknowledging noise but doesn't turn around. "I will know if you don't."

"I de-bugged my flat yesterday."

"I have more ways than that to keep an eye on you."

Sherlock turns to raise one disdainful eyebrow at him. "Your energy and time would be better spent monitoring the Reformists. Your assistants and staff are all tense; I assume they freed another family's slaves?"

It hits a bit too close to home. Mycroft remains silent, yet it is all the answer Sherlock needs.  
Sherlock might be an omega, but they are still equally brilliant.

His brother huffs and leaves.

Only Sherlock could laugh at the current situation. The Reformists are gaining in strength, support amongst the people is rising and gradually, even the Betas are becoming restless.

If he doesn't play his cards right, civil war will be inevitable.

20 per cent Alphas. 40 per cent Betas. 40 per cent omegas.

It doesn't take a mind like Mycroft Holmes' to deduce their chances are looking bleak.

xXx

"_The students are holding secret meetings. Speaking of things like equality and liberty. Must have heard it from friends in France, you know what's happening there._"

Mike's words are still ringing in John's ears.

A dark shadow of foreboding lies thick over London as he makes his way back to HQ from St Bart's where he meets with his friend once a week. Mike teaches at university – he has a direct line to the young generation.

Of course John knows of France – all his comrades are aware that there is a revolution on the rise across the ocean. Still, the French have tried once before and failed. But the young outnumber the old and desperately want to step out of their parents' shadow.

John prays for them to be victorious. Liberal legislation, or perhaps even democracy only a few miles away from the heart of the Empire? That would energise their forces.

If they will hold out that long.

SAS activity has doubled over the past week. More raids, more arrests happen every day and John wouldn't be surprised if the government pushed for stricter laws within the next few days.

"Captain Watson?" Ghandi's voice. Ghandi is a white kid from Sussex named Colin but his love for the Indian reformer runs so deep that he has the Reformists call him Ghandi.

"Yes?" John hopes his comrade only wants a quick word. The boy is an omega and his heat cycle is approaching, merely 24 hours away judging by his scent, and on principle John keeps his distance from any omega when he or she is in heat.

"The Triumvirate sent for you."

"You know they don't like it when you call them that."

"Well, they're three leaders. Triumvirate."

"Don't let them hear you, kid. Off with you, back to your books."

Ghandi smiles warmly and runs down the corridor. If John hadn't known that omegas were as intelligent as or even smarter than the average Alpha before he met the kid, John would have been converted the moment he held a passionate speech about Henry David Thoreau and his work on Civil Disobedience that left John's brain in knots.

John finds the Triumvirate in their conference room.

Irene Adler looks stunning as always, though the fact that John is sensing an Alpha smell doesn't bode well. Adler was born with a genetic mutation – she can alter her status and appear as Alpha, Beta and omega. It is fascinating, though John suspects that the lack of identity takes more out of the woman than she lets on.

Bhabha is deep in discussion with Marc Thoreau, great-grandchild of none other than the same Henry David Thoreau Ghandi is so fond of. Marc holds many traits people have ascribed to his great-grandfather with one major exception: Where Henry advocated non-violent protest, Marc has an itchy trigger finger.

Whenever he and Bhabha argue, it usually boils down to that issue. Today isn't any different.

"You wanted to speak to me?" John asks loudly to be heard over the raised voices of the two men. The omega and Beta fall silent instantly.

As no one volunteers to address the issue, Irene steps away from the map of Greater London that is covering half the wall.

"Yes, John. We have a new mission for you."

"We haven't decided yet," Bhabha interjects.

"We have. Two against one. It's final, Bhabha."

"Thoreau, your ancestor would turn in his grave if he knew what you were suggesting!"

"Good thing that he was shot and burnt and doesn't have a grave to turn in."

"What's all this about?" John tries again.

"The government is closing in on us. SAS activity has tremendously increased." One can always count on Irene to cut to the chase. "We need to take action."

"But not like this!"

Irene ignores the omega. "We're not ready for anything large" – which John's mind translates to civil war in a moment of horror – "so we have to start on a smaller scale. Kidnapping and blackmail."

"It goes against all our principles -"

"We've surpassed the state of moral superiority; lives are at stake, Bhabha!"

"Who?" John asks. Who could hold such value that Irene and Thoreau think they could bargain with his or her life? Everyone knows that even the highest ranking Alphas aren't immune to assassination by their own people.

Irene's smile turns malicious as she pushes a folder towards John across the table.

Blue, piercing eyes meet John's gaze as he opens the file. The man has cheekbones that warrant a licence and dark curls that contrast beautifully with his pale skin.

There isn't much information. Sherlock Holmes, 34, Alpha.

"Holmes?" The name can fill even the most battle-worn Reformist with fear. John has never met the man in person, is glad for it, too, since hardly any Reformist lives to tell the tale. Yet John has always imagined him a bit older and less lean from the stories.

"No, not Mycroft Holmes. Kidnapping him would be suicide," Thoreau explains. "This is his brother."

John raises his eyebrows.

"Our informant has supplied us with enough information that we can devise a plan to take Sherlock Holmes down easily."

"What are we going to do with him once he is in our custody?"

"We use him to blackmail Mycroft Holmes." Thoreau seems convinced of his indestructible plan, yet John could blow several holes in it already without even drawing his Sig.

"Are you sure that is wise?"

"I keep telling them," Bhabha snarls, "that Mycroft Holmes is not the kind of man who would let the kidnapping of his brother change anything. He'd rather let the man die before considering giving in to blackmail."

"And as we keep telling you, it's two against one."

John closes the folder and straightens himself up to his full height.

"Isn't this an issue for the Grand Council?"

John is surprised they haven't sought advice from their council on the matter before calling him in. Major operations always go through this channel.

"It will take too long," Thoreau objects. "If we call a meeting, we will have a decision by the day after tomorrow if we're lucky. We need time to plan the operation before the SAS are knocking on our front door!"

Irene's eyes are fixed on John, as are Marc's. John belatedly realises they are trying to stare him down.

No. He was not going to kidnap a man – Mycroft Holmes's brother above all else – if the Council hadn't signed off on it.

"This decision is too big for three people to make. Call me when the Council has reached an agreement."

John slides the folder back across the table and leaves the room. It turns out to be quite satisfactory to be able to tell them no.

He is not only the commanding officer but also their best soldier and they know it.

xXx

Sherlock returns the flash drive to his brother just in time for Lestrade's embarrassing press conference about the serial suicides.

He would have loved to see the DI's face when all the journalists' mobiles went off simultaneously.

Twenty-four hours later his eyes are still burning from the alarming shade of pink the third victim wore the previous night. Lestrade would have a fit that Sherlock took the case but as far as the DI is concerned, Sherlock is an Alpha and Mycroft Holmes' brother on top of that.

Besides, he solves half the Yard's cases for them anyway. Lestrade should be kissing the ground Sherlock walks on in gratitude.

Though despite the myriad of different crimes Sherlock has seen and solved, nothing can quite match the thrill of this one.

His hand isn't shaking when he takes the pill. It is almost in his mouth when the shot rings out and the cabbie drops to the floor.

For a split second Sherlock stands still, searching the window for the source of the shot, but the next thing he hears are footsteps on the stairs so he leaps forward, pressing his foot into the wound that is oozing red liquid and soaking the cabbie's shirt.

"Your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me – my 'fan'. I want a name."

The man shakes his head weakly. Sherlock presses down harder and he gasps in pain.

"A name." Another pained sound. "NOW!" Sherlock notes that the footsteps have stopped in front of the door.

The imminent threat registers but curiosity overrides it as Sherlock puts his entire weight onto the killer's shoulder.

"The name!"

Then, finally, drawn out in agony, the cabbie shouts, "Moriarty!" His body stills as life leaves him.

Before Sherlock can consider what or who Moriarty is, he feels a sharp sting in his neck. He raises his hand and turns towards the door.

The last he sees before he loses consciousness are five men, guns drawn.

xXx

When Sherlock drifts back into the world, he finds himself in a small room.

Four by four metres, about two metres high, bare walls, door locked from the outside, no handle. No windows but a ventilation shaft. The lid looks unyielding.

Sherlock would try to support his observation by trying to unhinge it, but whatever the men have injected him with keeps him firmly on his back.

So he stays put and bides his time.

xXx

"The mission went smoothly. The mark took over the investigation and followed the cabbie to the building. When the mark took the pill from the killer I shot him from the neighbouring house. Lubitsch and the rest of our men took Holmes without a problem."

John hates debriefings. Being the member of an underground opposition frees him from the paperwork he had to endure during his time with the military, but he still has to report to the Triumvirate or in this case, the Grand Council.

"Did Holmes not struggle?" Bhabha asks with an air of suspicion.

"No, sir. Lubitsch described the scene he encountered to me. Apparently, the mark was more interested in obtaining information from the wounded cabbie than in defending himself."

Irene Adler snorts. "That's to be expected. From what I can gather, the man lives for puzzles. He'd rather take a risk than pass on an opportunity to find out more."

Intriguing. Doesn't this man have any survival instincts?

"Captain Watson," Thoreau begins, utterly pleased with himself and the way Bhabha is glaring at him, "as commanding officer and the only Alpha experienced enough to handle the situation, we place you in charge of Sherlock Holmes."

"What are my duties?"

"Keep him healthy and get him to talk if you can."

"I won't torture him, Thoreau."

"I wasn't asking you to. We want to use him as leverage, not as a means to an end in himself. Don't let him escape or get a message to his friends."

"Understood."

xXx

He is on babysitting duty. Bloody brilliant.

Despite his annoyance, John feels a thrill of anticipation as he is making his way to Sherlock Holmes' cell. Not that the HQ has cells. It is a common room, actually, with a few modifications to the lock.

John positions two guards on the door and enters, vigilant yet confident.

The man scrambles into a sitting position. Of course, the tranquilliser wouldn't allow him to stand up just yet. John quickly scans his body for any sign of discomfort but finds none.

John senses the blue eyes on him and feels as if they were taking him apart. He wishes Sherlock's file contained more information on the man.

"Who are you?" For a hostage, Sherlock seems to be quite rude.

He holds Sherlock's look for a few seconds to leave no doubt about who is in charge. "John Watson. I'm your handler while you're here."

"Handler?" Those blue eyes narrow. "And how long will I have to spend here?"

"That depends on your brother."

The man catches on surprisingly quickly. Understanding blooms on his face which then contorts in a bitter sneer.

"Please. Blackmailing Mycroft with me as leverage is pointless. Shoot me right now and spare yourselves the trouble."

"You seem to have little faith in your brother."

"My brother is a politician. He wouldn't lose a minute of his beauty sleep over me. But of course," Sherlock's smirk turns wicked, "having a sibling of your own, you can't comprehend how anyone could so easily abandon a brother."

John tenses, his hand shooting to his Sig. "How do you know I have a sibling?"

The man holds his gaze, unwavering. "The same way I know you're an army doctor who's been invalided home. Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John knows he is staring and shakes himself out of it. Sherlock Holmes probably has an entire file on him, courtesy of his brother.

"Afghanistan. How did you know?"

At that, Sherlock actually smiles. "I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But the way you examined me with a look when you entered the room says medical training, so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is still slightly tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. You roll your left shoulder subconsciously, wounded in action, sent home or otherwise you'd still be fighting in Afghanistan, the Empire wouldn't let a fit soldier go otherwise."

Unbelievable. "You said I had a sibling."

"That was easy. Your inflection and tone when you told me the plan was to blackmail Mycroft told me you are operating under the illusion that you can relate. Also, the watch you're wearing is expensive, too expensive for a Reformist, but then it's quite old. A gift, then. It's a man's watch, so brother it is. He is in trouble of some sort, probably gave you the watch as a token to remember him by. It's still in nearly perfect condition, so you spend much time tending to it."  
Sherlock focuses his intense stare on John once more. "Your neck is tense, you've just come from a meeting. Probably where they told you that you would be my handler. You're a man of action so you don't like the prospect of babysitting me; though your body language has shifted subtly since you entered the room so your attitude has changed slightly. You're no longer overly annoyed, only mildly, but intrigued."

The man finishes with a click of his tongue and rests his back against the bare wall, eyes closed.

"That… was amazing."

At that, Sherlock leans forward again, eyes snapping open in surprise.

"Do you think so?"

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary." He isn't lying. That man has only just laid eyes on him and he can tell most of John's life story.

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"'Piss off'."

John can't help but smile at that. He knows several people who would have told Sherlock exactly that, perhaps even in a few more colourful ways.

"So, was I right then?" Sherlock looks up at John from the mattress and for a second John registers how long the man's lashes are.

"Almost. I don't have a brother."

"How is that -"

"I have a sister."

Sherlock lets out a frustrated sound. "There's always something. Sister. That was a tough one."

John shakes his head in disbelieve since his hostage – yes, hostage, not guest, John – appears to be seriously angry with himself.

"Are you hurt?"

It distracts Sherlock from his self-berating. He shakes his head.

"Good. The effects of the tranquilliser should fade within the next six hours, so if you still experience the sensations tonight, let me know." Sherlock doesn't nod but John assumes he must have heard him. "Are you hungry?"

"No. I require little food."

"Why?" Usually, Alpha biology also heightens a person's metabolism.

"Food distracts me from thinking. My body is nothing but a vessel."

John lets that remark stand there for a moment.

"I'll ask you again at lunchtime. We'll see if the vessel needs fuel by then."

John nods at Sherlock and turns to go, though stops when the man asks, "How did you know I would be in the building?"

John moves to face Sherlock again. "It was a trap. The whole cabbie thing."

His eyes widen. "So he wasn't the real killer?"

"Oh, he was. We just managed to push him in your direction," John says elusively. He has given away enough already.

Sherlock considers him for a moment but doesn't say more, so John leaves the cell.

xXx

The army doctor keeps his promise to come back at lunchtime but Sherlock merely looks at him and the Reformist departs without another word.

He probably regrets being overly talkative with his hostage.

Captain John Watson is a paradox. He holds himself like a real soldier, with the sort of confidence that only stems from genuine skill. He is one of the strongest Alphas Sherlock has ever encountered and could have easily climbed the ranks in the SAS, yet here he is, helping a bunch of idealistic fools.

Something must have happened. It is a puzzle.

Though to solve it, he needs more data.

By mid-afternoon, Sherlock is able to stand on his feet again. As he predicted, the lid of the ventilation shaft is unyielding. His lock-picking kit is in his coat, which the Reformists took from him. All they left him are his trousers and his purple button-down. And his socks.

He manages to occupy himself with walking about the sixteen square metres for approximately eight and a half minutes (in which he has determined the chemical make-up of the walls) before his brain is screaming in agonised boredom.

When a key turns in the lock, Sherlock snaps back to real life immediately.

It is John, carrying a tray with what looks like toast, beans, and scrambled eggs on a plate.

"I don't care if you're hungry or not, I'm your captor, so when I say you eat, you do so."

Sherlock snorts. Alphas. So full of themselves.

He is about to decline when he takes notice of the smell. It has been quite some time since he has last eaten, he realises.

With a condescending glare, Sherlock accepts the food and nudges it cautiously with his fork.

"It's not poisoned. We need you alive."

That isn't what has caught Sherlock's attention. "This is self-made."

"Yes, my abilities surpass pulling a trigger, actually."

Sherlock tries the eggs and finds John's cooking quite satisfactory, which he is careful not to let on.

He feels the Captain's eyes on him a few moments later.

"You have questions."

"Yes. What exactly is it that you do?"

"I'm a consulting detective. The only one there is, given that I invented the job."

"I thought the police didn't hire amateurs."

"From what I deduced this morning, I doubt you'd still consider me an amateur."

The Captain is silent again and Sherlock sneaks a glance at him around a mouthful of toast. His neck has become even tenser and his left hand is trembling ever so slightly.

The tremor was non-existent this morning.

Something has changed.

"How long are you going to keep me before you contact my brother?"

John narrows his eyes. "It has been decided that we wait until your brother notices you're gone. Our leaders don't want to rush this."

"It won't take long. But until then, you're trapped in here."

"How did you -"

"There's a slight tremor in your left hand which wasn't there when we spoke this morning when you were operating under the impression that this hostage situation would be resolved within a day or two and subsequently you could return to the field. But now you're left in the dark with nothing to do but babysit me. For a man who thrives on adrenaline and action this, of course, would produce a psychosomatic tremor."

John looks at his hand and deliberately stops it from shaking.

"Amazing."

A smile tugs at Sherlock's lips despite his efforts not to show any reaction. He quickly changes the subject.

"Why are you with the Reformists?"

"Why, is that so surprising for an Alpha?"

"Not necessarily. Though you are quite a strong one and you have medical training – you would have made it far in the Empire, even if you couldn't be a soldier anymore. But with the right amount of physiotherapy, your shoulder wouldn't have been an obstacle had you wished to resume your military career."

He considers the Alpha for a moment and John almost grows uncomfortable under his gaze.

"I'm sure you have a theory. Let's hear it, then, shall we?"

Sherlock finishes the last of his beans, sets the knife and fork down and presses his fingertips together as he looks straight at the Captain from his position on the mattress.

"The watch – you hold it dear, it's meticulously clean and well-cared for. A gift from your sister, we've already established that. You haven't seen her in awhile; either because she left you, was taken from you, or died. She is an omega in every scenario. Having an omega as your sister would cause some degree of contemplation regarding the Empire's status rules. Yet you're not merely a sympathising Alpha, you're in the front row of the Reformist movement, playing an active part. That kind of loyalty and devotion needs more motivation. Something happened in Afghanistan. India's independence greatly influenced the side of the country not dominated by petty wars, and many of the ethnic groups don't adhere to the Alpha-omega order the Empire implemented any more. Of course, you would have witnessed how life was possible outside of biological constraints. There had to have been an incident, some kind of eye-opening experience."

John's eyes widen while Sherlock draws his conclusions, which confirms his theories without the need for actual words.

It isn't that extraordinary in the end. Knowledge of other cultures has led Homi Bhabha to the realisation that the social inequalities between Alphas and omegas are due to power discrepancies and oppression. There is no basic truth in the Empire's system, no natural imperative underlying the practice of slavery.

Bhabha provided the omegas with easily understandable phrases in his writings and gradually, the Reformists formed.

It is nothing new. Whether they call it Enlightenment or Revelation doesn't change that history is repeating itself.

But Sherlock is drifting off. His brain, when bored, tends to get carried away.

The pause evidently gave John time to collect himself.

"I was wounded in battle shortly before an explosion killed most of my team. I was sure that if I didn't die from my wounds, our enemies would shoot me." John's voice is low as the memories wash through him. "I woke up in someone's home. He was an omega and had suffered all his life during civil wars and political disputes but he… He could have killed me. He didn't. Instead he tended to my wounds and sent me back out there, knowing that I was an Alpha, representing everything that made his life difficult. He explained that, in his eyes, biology doesn't determine a person's worth. It's the ruling parties who enslave and take peoples' rights away."

John pauses, but Sherlock can easily fill in the blanks.

"So when you were invalided home, you left the military and joined the Reformists."

The soldier nods, defiantly proud. "And now, we're holding you hostage."

Sherlock huffs at the sudden change of topic. "A futile endeavour."

"Our leaders believe it is the best course of action."

"They don't know Mycroft."

"But you do. You work for him?"

Sherlock's eyes narrow. Smooth, how John is weaving questions in the conversation. A little bit of intel, Sherlock muses, wouldn't hurt.

"Sometimes he crumbles and draws on my intellectual superiority and deductive skills."

John smirks, probably at the arrogance dripping from his voice but doesn't react in any other way.

"The rest of the time, I take it," the Alpha goes on, "DI Lestrade gives you cases?"

"You already know that."

"Yes."

Sherlock holds John's gaze for a moment, making it clear that he isn't going to give up any more information.

John nods, takes the empty plate and turns to leave.

"Someone will come to take you to the bathroom shortly," he says and is out of the door before Sherlock can reply.

xXx

The night and the following morning pass in an endless stretch of nothing. Sherlock tries to numb his mind but doesn't succeed.

He knows that it is going to take at least another day or two until Mycroft notices he is gone. Sherlock tries to calculate how long it will take for him to go into detox, yet he has no data to draw any conclusions from.

Sherlock hasn't taken his medication for two days in a row. He has heard stories of antagonising detox when an omega would stop taking the hormones, but has no idea how long he has until the process will start.

John brings him breakfast and a bottle of water. He brings him lunch as well and Sherlock finds he quite enjoys the soldier's simple yet delicious concoctions although he keeps insisting that he doesn't require three meals a day.

"Anything else you need?" John asks when he takes the empty tray from Sherlock.

"I'm bored," he states and hopes it will suffice. John merely raises an eyebrow. "I could do with a book. Or a case."

John smiles indulgently. "Well, we're a bit short on those, you see, we're not quite legal so we're not allowed to investigate anything. But I'll see what I can do."

True to his word, John returns two hours later with a stack of books.

He pauses before he leaves the room, hand on the doorknob, and Sherlock refrains from asking what he wants, eager to see what books can be found in the Reformist HQ.

"Sherlock, why has no one noticed you've been gone for two days?"

"Mycroft, as even you might be able to deduce, is a very busy man."

The Captain rolls his eyes and angles his body so that he's facing Sherlock. "And what about your friends?"

"I don't have friends."

"What do you mean, everybody has friends," John replies, amused.

"Well, I'm not everybody."

John must have seen that he is being serious for his smile disappears.

"Please, spare me any awkward moments and simply leave. I'm sure you have better things to do than babysit me all hours of the day."

Sherlock only has one second to glimpse the emotion that flits across John's face before he schools his expression and leaves the cell.

xXx

There's no mention of his lack of social life when John brings him dinner, which Sherlock is grateful for. He manages to immerse himself in a series of crime novels, ignoring how obvious the murderer is every time, ignoring how bluntly the author drops hints for the readership.

Sherlock complains to John about it, and the reformist chuckles.

"I'm sorry, but our library isn't very well-stocked," he explains as he exits the room.

After showering under supervision – the Reformists, however, are keen to give him his privacy and the guard doesn't actually watch him shower, a gesture he does appreciate – he falls asleep but wakes with a start a few hours later.

He can feel pain, faint but definitely there, all over his body. His head aches and he is sure he is developing a fever.

No one is to notice, he decides. Especially not John, an Alpha with medical training.

Sherlock knows that it is a lost endeavour, should Mycroft not rescue him within the next day, which is highly unlikely. The scent alone will tell John everything he needs to know.

Still, Sherlock prides himself with incredible control over his body, and he is determined to hide his condition for as long as possible.

xXx

**End Notes: **I hope you enjoyed! If you are so inclined, please leave a review :)

Homi Bhabha, for those who care, actually is a professor at Harvard and the leading figure in post-colonial studies. Sherlock's account of his past draws heavily from Bhabha's real life.  
Goes to show that I had the original idea for this AU during the lecture on post-colonial cultural anthropology :)


	2. First Heat

**Chapter 2 – First Heat**

John grows suspicious when Sherlock basically dismisses him after he finishes lunch and tells him he needn't return with dinner.

"All this food makes my head spin," he explains, looking sincere.

It has taken Sherlock longer than usual to eat his food and it almost looks as though he had to force himself to get it all down.

The doubts and worry keep nagging at John the entire afternoon; not even the training drill manages to distract him.

"Where are you going, sir?" Lubitsch asks when John makes to leave immediately after training.

"Checking up on – Holmes." He almost called him Sherlock.

_Hostage, not guest. Hostage, not guest_, he reminds himself.

Lubitsch doesn't pry but nods curtly and gathers his weapons.

John nods at the guard who unlocks the door for him. Sherlock is curled up on the bed, a book open in front of him and his eyes are gliding across the pages but John can tell the man has just woken up.

"Wanted to see if you still didn't want any dinner," he states, watching Sherlock's eyes narrow. Something is off, yet John can't quite put his finger on it.

"My wishes haven't changed."

"Alright. If they do, tell the guard outside."

Sherlock nods and returns his attention to the book. John can tell the hostage is waiting for him to leave, but he lingers for a moment longer, considering Sherlock. In vain, it turns out, as nothing strikes him as off, so he turns around and opens the door.

xXx

After a very frustrating meeting with the Triumvirate (well, Ghandi's nickname is quite catchy) John finds himself in the break room reserved for higher ranking personnel, brewing tea.

A look at the time tells him that Sherlock is being led to the showers right now, and John decides to make him tea as well. Sherlock has never commented on it, but John suspects that Sherlock really prefers tea over bottled water.

China is hazardous – John wouldn't put it past Sherlock to come up with a way to use a cup of tea to make an escape – which is why John refrains from bringing Sherlock tea more often.

Unfortunately, they don't have many plastic cups at HQ, all part of the environmentally friendly side to their campaign.

He has folders to go through, so he sets the cup down next to Sherlock's empty mattress and leaves the cell again.

A commotion a few doors down the hall catches his attention – he feels his body tense, his senses sharpen, and a hand darts to his Sig.

When he rounds a corner he sees what the origin of the noises is: Sherlock, purple shirt half unbuttoned and missing his socks, is fighting a guard.

The attempted escape doesn't surprise John in the slightest, he only muses why Sherlock's plan hadn't been better thought out.

When the fighting pair turns so Sherlock has his back to where John is standing, he advances. The guard hits the ground after a particularly hard blow from Sherlock, but John's attack surprises the taller man and within a few moments, John has Sherlock pinned to the ground, hands around slender but strong wrists.

Sherlock is breathing hard, almost ragged, his eyes glazed. John releases one wrist when he is sure he can hold Sherlock down one-handedly and brings the back of his hand up to Sherlock's forehead.

The skin is burning.

John's hand returns to Sherlock's wrist and finds a racing pulse.

"You're sick," he says as he rises to his feet. That probably also explains the ill thought out escape plan. "I will get you to the infirmary."

He helps Sherlock up just as another soldier rounds the corner, whom he instructs to take care of the guard and the one presumably unconscious on the bathroom floor.

After a few steps Sherlock's feet give out from under him, so John readjusts his grip and half-carries, half-drags the man.

"You don't need to…" Sherlock protests faintly.

John chuckles. "I do, because your feet are too weak to do it on their own."

He can feel the attempted struggle, but Sherlock's heart isn't in it. After a moment, the man's arms wrap around John's neck for support and John quickens his steps. Sherlock's torso is hot against his chest, sending a shiver down his spine.

The prerogative about being the First Officer and a doctor is that no one objects to him entering the infirmary and handling the equipment, for which John is supremely grateful when he enters with a barely conscious hostage in his arms.

He gently sets Sherlock down on the bed, glad to put some distance between the warm body and his own. His first priority is to set an IV so he takes what he needs and pushes the fabric of Sherlock's shirt back until the veins of his armpit are exposed.

"What are you doing?" Blue eyes follow his hands though their gaze is nowhere near as sharp as John is used to by now.

"You have a fever, you need fluids."

"You should have someone else do it." It's barely more than a whisper but the commanding tone is clear nonetheless.

It makes him look up from where he is disinfecting the pale skin he has uncovered. "Why?"

Sherlock doesn't specify and John finishes setting the IV. He gently moves to unbutton Sherlock's shirt further to gain better access with the stethoscope and those blue eyes follow his every move.

When his fingers brush against the skin of Sherlock's chest, blue eyes flutter closed and the man shivers.

John jumps back as if he was burnt, eyes scanning Sherlock's body for any other symptoms.

Fever, elevated heart rate and sensitivity to touch… he has seen that before.

Carefully, he inches closer and focuses on his sense of smell. A deep inhale and the usual odour of the infirmary hits his nose but there is a new smell beneath it all. Spicy-sweet, raw, increasing in intensity and even now, it is tugging at something primal and deep within John.

His eyes snap open. He didn't even realise he had closed them.

Sherlock's eyes are wide as they undoubtedly see comprehension dawn on John's features.

"I will get you a different doctor," John says and backs away, drawing the curtains around Sherlock's bed.

xXx

The fever takes over Sherlock's mind soon after he feels the soft infirmary bed underneath him.

Everything is a blur, people coming and going, but that scent, John's scent, never leaves entirely.

"What are you taking?" John's voice sounds urgent.

"Metamoxin," he mumbles and feels more than sees the doctor nod.

He drifts in and out of consciousness, notes the changes in his body as the hormones are washed out of his system and detox takes its course.

He wakes up with a start; sweat heavy and wet on his skin. He looks around – he isn't in sickbay anymore, this is a separate room. There are two bags on the IV stand next to him.

"Sherlock?"

His eyes follow the voice – John is sitting near the door, papers and folders in his lap. He gathers them, advances, is suddenly next to him.

Sherlock swallows, but his throat remains dry.

"The worst is behind you, but you still need to rest, alright?"

Sherlock nods, the action draining him as if it took colossal effort. He must have drifted off after that, for when he opens his eyes again, the room is dark and John is gone.

His brain is less clouded now, the haze of drugs still there though not as strong as before. Pieces of realisation float in and out of his mind.

He is off the Metamoxin. The Reformists know he is an omega. He will go into heat at some point.

Sleep comes, but it is restless.

xXx

"Before we can discharge you, Captain Watson wanted to speak with you," the doctor explains as he withdraws the IV line from his aching veins.

Sherlock nods. He gathered as much. The Reformists want answers and John has come to get them.

"How are you feeling?"

"You're the doctor, you tell me."

John raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "If you're being clever, I'm guessing better."

Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Please. I've been deducing the staff here all morning. Nurse Jones is sleeping with that Beta doctor."

"He's married," is all John says, surprised though not questioning Sherlock's findings.

He snorts in response. "If you're that naïve, you're a lot less intelligent than I thought."

John chuckles before his expression turns earnest. "We need to talk."

He doesn't acknowledge the statement, so John goes on.

"Just that we're all on the same page: You're an omega who has been taking Metamoxin to pass as an Alpha. Is that true?"

Sherlock dignifies that with an annoyed sigh and a "yes."

"How long have you been taking it?"

"Since I was three."

John looks shocked. "Three?"

"Is there something wrong with your hearing?" he asks as scathingly as he is capable of.

"No, it's just… taking the meds that young – it's dangerous."

"Not as dangerous as letting the world know I'm an omega." He tries to keep the disdain out of his voice, though John's empathetic look tells him he failed.

"About that… Your brother knows you're missing. They are going to make him an offer today. If it goes well, no one will ever learn the truth from us, as far as I'm concerned."

"It won't. Mycroft will never negotiate with Reformists."

"If that's the case, we will use the knowledge about your status to blackmail him."

John doesn't look comfortable with that, Sherlock notes with interest.

"Won't make a difference."

John doesn't answer. Sherlock opens his mouth, wants to ask for he can't deduce the answer, yet he can't actually say the words "Will you kill me if it comes to it?". It is unthinkable. Sherlock Holmes, killed by petty rebels.

John, on the other hand, seems to guess what is going through his head.

"I don't know what they'll want to do with you if your brother refuses all our offers. But I promise you, I won't stand for them killing you."

Determination is etched in ever line of John's body, every fibre of the Captain promises sincerity and Sherlock finds himself compelled to believe him. John doesn't even look surprised at his own confession which is what startles Sherlock the most and does things to him he can't find the words to express.

xXx

John is pacing in the conference room when Mycroft Holmes' answer reaches them. The soldier who has been tasked to meet with one of Mycroft's men returns with a clear message: "We don't negotiate with Reformists."

Marc groans in frustration, Bhabha sighs, and Irene's hand comes down hard on the table. John isn't surprised in the least. Sherlock has been sure enough for the both of them that his brother won't budge, even if it means giving Sherlock up to rebels.

The confirmation of how little Mycroft values his brother sends something dark and vicious through John's body and he has to stifle the urge to punch something, hard.

"We need to consider when we will launch our next move," Marc says as he rises. "Do we have any indication when the hostage will go into heat?"

He looks at John expectantly and John would love nothing more than being able to shrug, to say he has no idea, because that would mean he hasn't noticed how Sherlock's smell has grown more and more distinct. How the Alpha inside John stirs, primal and raw, tearing down the walls of self-discipline and restraint he has built up so well.

Instead, he clears his throat. "Soon, I believe."

"When the first signs appear, we will show Holmes that we know of what he has done to his brother."

"And you think that will make a difference?" John asks, holding Marc's stare.

"He has gone to great lengths to conceal this from the public. If everyone knew his brother was an omega, it would cause great upheaval. People will be angry. He won't want that." Irene is standing now, too.

Bhabha merely nods and John knows his concerns have gone unheard.

xXx

"Mycroft declined."

It is a fact, not a question and Sherlock goes right back to his supper, expression blank, and John has no clue what the man is feeling.

"Yes."

"Surprise." It sounds bitter.

John wills Sherlock to eat faster so John can leave faster, get away from the spicy-sweet smell that is drawing him nearer.

"What is the plan?" Blue eyes are meeting his gaze steadily, no hint of emotion in them.

John swallows, uncomfortable repeating what Marc explained.

"Wait until you go into heat, then threaten to reveal the truth should Mycroft not comply."

Sherlock looks up, stares for a moment, but averts his eyes again. Sherlock's body is tense, John would say he is scared if "the great Sherlock Holmes" could feel fear, which, John is sure, Sherlock would deny.

John's thoughts wander while his hostage finishes the food and with sudden clarity, he realises what could have the world's only consulting detective worried.

"Sherlock, is this your first heat?" John asks without thinking, the words out before he can stop them.

Sherlock freezes, refusing to look up. "I've been on Metamoxin since I was three. You have medical training, do the math," he snaps.

"We will move you to a special room," John says after long silence. "You will have your privacy, a bathroom of your own."

It's all they can do down here. John knows that there are facilities that are specially equipped to handle omegas who are being weaned off the hormones after a longer period of time. All they can do here is to give them privacy.

Sherlock nods and pushes the plate away. John picks it up immediately, eager to leave, but something makes him linger at the door.

"It will be fine," he says on a whim. Sherlock doesn't reply.

xXx

The heat hasn't really started yet and all Sherlock wants to do is jump out of his skin.

They moved him before his usual shower – his pheromones have been increasing in intensity during the afternoon hours and Sherlock has seen the effect his smell has on everyone around him.

He is glad for his own room; it is secure, still locked from the outside but has a real bed, not a mattress on the floor, and a bathroom like John promised.

John brings him supper again, yet he keeps his distance even more than before. It doesn't matter – Sherlock can sense the Alpha's presence nonetheless; can smell his strength; can feel his own body respond with pure want he had never known before.

He tells himself that his body is merely a vessel, wills the feelings away – in vain. He gulps down the food, pushes the plate away and John is out the room faster than Sherlock would have deemed possible.

He finds little sleep in his seventh night with the Reformists.

John returns with breakfast and Sherlock hears him swallow in quick succession.

"You don't need to return if this is too difficult for you," he drawls, something in him wishing for John to stay despite the pheromones in the room. He hates himself for it; it's biology, that's all there is to it.

"You're my responsibility." The same determination fills John's eyes as when he promised Sherlock he wouldn't let the Reformists kill him, and it touches something in Sherlock.

They don't talk that day, with the exception of John explaining about the blackmail tape the leaders want to make. An omega comes by his room after supper, which Sherlock refuses to eat because he can't. All he can think about is that strong urge deep in his stomach, how his body aches for touch.

Heat hits him in the late afternoon with all its force. He doesn't dare move on the bed for every bit of friction sends sparks through his body, down his groin, and has him wanting more.

Shame is burning high in his cheeks when he feels himself lubricating, a bit of slick trickling out of his body and into the fabric of his underwear. He hears the door open and close.

John stands rooted to the spot, plate in hand, but Sherlock can't smell the food. The only scent filling his nose is _John John John_, strong, steady, reassuring.

Sherlock feels blood filling his cock and has enough presence of mind to start breathing through his mouth.

"Sherlock?" John's voice is rough, unusually deep. Sherlock shivers as he realises that John must smell it, his arousal, the way his body responds to the Alpha in the room.

"Go."

He hears the door close but a trace of the scent still lingers.

xXx

After the omega leaves, apparently satisfied with what he filmed, Sherlock is alone again. His mind is racing, going in a hundred different directions at once though at the same time, nothing registers.

Sleep comes with hot dreams about strong hands holding him down, pushing into him, soothing the burning inside of him and Sherlock wakes with a start, gripping the sheets and rutting into the mattress.

He sends John away when he enters in the morning, the little wave of smell enough to ignite Sherlock's body, make him even harder. His hole is positively dripping now with self-lubrication and every movement makes Sherlock whimper against the sheets.

Time loses meaning, only John's return tells him it has to be around noon.

"Go," he whispers and it takes every bit of discipline to do it. He isn't to be ruled by biology. Sherlock Holmes is able to experience his first heat without the help of an Alpha.

He is stronger than his urges. _Stronger_, he keeps repeating in his mind, _stronger_.

But it feels like he is burning up from the inside, desire filling every cell of his body, and his hands start shaking from the strain of denying himself release. Deep in the corners of his mind Sherlock knows that he has already lost.

xXx

John takes a deep breath before he retrieves the keys to Sherlock's room.

His hands are steady but he feels far from it, he isn't sure he would be able to leave again if Sherlock told him to this time.

He enters swiftly and opens his mouth to speak but can't. The spicy-sweet smell envelops him, he wants to dive into it, let it consume him, corrupt him. His cock fills on its own accord, straining against the constraints of his uniform.

"Sherlock?" he tries and hears his voice tremble. He can see the figure on the bed in the dim evening light, sees the man shaking underneath the covers and prays to whatever god that is listening to give him the strength to go, to turn around, to rein in his biology.

"John," Sherlock breathes. _John_, not _go away_.

His feet carry him into the room against his will.

"Sherlock?"

"Please."

He moves closer until he can look into those blue eyes, dark with arousal and pure need. John's fingers itch to touch, wipe away the sweat from Sherlock's forehead.

"Please what?"

He needs Sherlock to say it, needs absolution for his own sanity, at the same time knowing that Sherlock is in no position to consent to anything. John has seen omegas in heat, has smelled their scent, has nursed their wounds after they scratched their skin raw from wanting and not getting because they had refused when they were still able to consent.

John can see the white knuckles of Sherlock's hands where they are gripping the sheets so tight they would tear soon.

The man draws in a shaky breath. "Help me. Touch me."

"Sherlock, I don't take advantage, I don't abuse my status," he says in a hurry for he feels his resolve crumbling around him, wondering _Why am I here, then?_ Why did he keep coming to Sherlock's room, fully aware of the heat cycle approaching?

"Please."

It's barely audible but Sherlock shifts slightly, blue eyes begging, body straining up against the blanket, cheeks flushed. His dark curls are damp from sweat.

The sight, the single word Sherlock whispered is John's undoing. He realises he has been fighting his biology these past hours, losing every time he even stepped into Sherlock's room but still strong enough to leave. Sherlock's "Please" renders it all mute and John gives in, has probably given in the moment he realised Sherlock was an omega without wanting to admit to it.

He reaches out to caress Sherlock's cheek and the man leans into his touch, mouthing at his thumb.

John steps closer, hand running down Sherlock's body and eliciting a deep moan which turns into a whimper when he cups Sherlock's leaking cock through his pants.

John captures Sherlock's lips in an open-mouthed kiss, hot and urgent, intoxicating and before he knows it, he has climbed into the bed and is tearing at the shirt buttons. Underneath is pale skin, so inviting, and he licks at Sherlock's collarbone, making him moan and cling to him like he is his reason to breathe.

He pushes his shirt over slim shoulders and lets it fall to the floor. It is too hot suddenly, so he removes his own shirt as well and presses down. Skin meets skin and Sherlock shivers against him, a keening sound leaving his lips.

John lets his hands roam across strong muscle that quivers under his touch, exploring hurriedly before his fingers find their way to Sherlock's fly.

He pulls both trousers and pants down in one swift motion that has Sherlock crying out loudly, back arching off the mattress.

The sight of his bare cock, fully erect and glistening with precome makes John's mouth water.

He shuffles on the bed and takes Sherlock down in one movement.

"Fuck!" Sherlock cries out and John bites back any sexual innuendo in favour of taking Sherlock deeper, sucking hard and swallowing around the leaking head.

It only takes a few strokes of his tongue and Sherlock finds release, bittersweet down John's throat. The taste leaves him dizzy as he shuffles back up, sliding one arm behind Sherlock's back and cradling his head against his chest.

They fit together perfectly.

His own cock twitches inside his trousers, but John knows that Sherlock won't take long to recover. Usual heats are vicious, but with an omega that has supressed for so long? John can only imagine.

"Thank you," Sherlock murmurs against his chest.

"I'm here."

He lifts his head to look into John's eyes.

"I believe I need you to fuck me," Sherlock says, traces of the clear analytical detective still there but clouded by heat, and every cell in John's body screams in agreement.

"I will if you want me to."

"Yes," Sherlock breathes as he takes John's hand that is resting on his waist and guides it downward, sliding it between his cheeks and John's breath hitches when he feels the wetness there.

Experimentally, he presses a finger into the heat and Sherlock groans wantonly, pushing back, so John quickly adds a second finger and pushes deeper into the seductive, tight heat.

Sherlock starts moving, rutting against John's hip and he can feel Sherlock getting hard again as he fucks himself on John's fingers.

A third finger has him panting, a fourth drives him insane.

"Please, John, do it, fuck me, hold me down, I need it, can't think about anything else, please…" Sherlock whispers between moans and cries and the Alpha in John takes over completely.

He withdraws his hand sharply and turns Sherlock around with more force than necessary. His shoes, socks, trousers and pants hit the floor and the air is a welcome sensation against his painfully hard cock.

He uses both arms to draw Sherlock up so he is resting on arms and knees. He gives Sherlock's leaking cock a few strokes until the man is grinding back against John's groin and it becomes too much.

He draws Sherlock's cheeks apart with a steady hand and exposes the dripping hole.

"Please," Sherlock all but begs and that is it – John pushes in without remorse, in one motion, hard and fast, and the man underneath him cries out in pain and pleasure.

Sherlock is tighter than he ever imagined and oh so responsive. John draws back slowly, agonisingly slowly and enters Sherlock at the same pace. Sherlock shivers around his cock and John increases his rhythm, gripping Sherlock's hips tight enough to bruise and the thought of lasting marks drive John halfway out of his mind.

He bends forward and sucks hard on Sherlock's shoulder, soon biting down, growling when he feels Sherlock's hips stutter and hears him cry out as he spills hot semen across the mattress.

John doesn't stop but keeps pounding into Sherlock, slower than before, fucking him through the aftershocks, fucking him until he can feel Sherlock's cock stir and fill again.

Obscene noises leave Sherlock, sprawled out beneath John, and all he can think is _mine, mine, mine_ when his hands move to Sherlock's shoulders and press down, hard.

Sherlock whimpers and goes wild under him, grinding back against him, meeting every trust until John hits his prostate.

"John!" he shouts straining upwards but hands hold him down and the power John feels surging through his veins almost sends him over the edge.

His hands draw back and hold onto Sherlock's hips, pulling him up. John leans back until he is resting on his heels and he pulls Sherlock's lithe body against his chest, his hips never ceasing their movements.

Sherlock groans deep when John's cock hits his prostate again and his head rolls back, resting on John's shoulder, exposing his neck.

It's an invitation and John takes it, licking, biting, sucking until Sherlock is squirming, breath coming in spurts, and John moves one hand to Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock's fingernails dig deep into John's thighs and the pain finally vanquishes the last of John's restraint. He feels his knot filling, growing, and Sherlock notices it too when he slides down John's cock again.

John stills for a moment and lets Sherlock simply feel his knot as it tries to breach the sphincter. He is rewarded with a full-body shiver.

"Do you want it?" he asks because even in this state, John would not knot an omega without consent. As far as one could speak of consent in this situation, a voice in John's head whispers.

Sherlock growls deep inside his chest and pushes down, intention clear, and the friction against his knot is enough to make John moan and bite down hard on Sherlock's skin.

He lifts Sherlock up once more, arms tight around his torso, and when Sherlock sinks down, John shifts his hips until he can feel his knot entering Sherlock, stretching him almost beyond capacity.

John shudders as the sensation runs through his body and he gives them both time to adjust before he pushes Sherlock forward, once more positioning him on his knees and arms.

His rhythm is merciless, forceful, brutal even as he rams into Sherlock until all of him is buried inside. Sherlock wines and John can sense the heat pooling in his stomach. One hand grips Sherlock's cock tight, he matches his strokes to the rhythm of his hips and then, Sherlock arches his back and pushes back, coming in hot spurts, John's name on his lips.

With Sherlock convulsing around his cock and his knot, the orgasm rips through John with enough force that he sees stars behind his eyelids and he blacks out for a second before he collapses on Sherlock.

His first coherent thought is that he has to move if he doesn't want to suffocate Sherlock, so he shuffles until they are lying on their sides, John still buried inside Sherlock, whose back is pressed against his chest.

The second thing that registers is that their scents have mixed and for a second, John feels blind panic considering what that might entail before he forces himself to calm down and think about it later.

All that matters right now is Sherlock, whose hand covers John's as he holds it tight against his chest.

John can feel the heart beating underneath, relieved that it is slowing down. Sherlock isn't trembling anymore but breathing evenly, drifting off into the realm of sleep where John gladly follows.

xXx

It is still dark in the room when John wakes again. They shifted during sleep, Sherlock is lying across his chest, drawing circles with his fingers.

"Sherlock?" he asks tentatively.

Blue eyes meet his and John is glad that they are clearer now, still filled with desire but not glazed anymore. He feels Sherlock's erection press against his thigh and blood starts rushing into his groin.

"Better?"

Sherlock nods. "But I'm still burning," he adds, voice tight as if he had expected the heat to be over by now.

"That's normal. It will take a little longer to pass."

Sherlock groans in frustration, burying his head in the crook of John's neck, and John thinks he understands.

"Just a vessel, right?"

Sherlock dignifies this with a nod and a strangled sound.

John's left hand caresses the pale skin over Sherlock's shoulder blades for a while until the man lifts his head and meets his eyes again.

"What do you want?" A part of him hopes that even though his mind is clearer now, Sherlock will still choose him for this.

Sherlock shivers and swallows hard. John follows the movement of his throat with his eyes.

"I need you to fuck me again."

John's heart flutters in his chest and he shifts on the bed, facing Sherlock. His hands stroke up and down Sherlock's sides until he feels goosebumps cover the skin. He shifts until he covers Sherlock with his body and rolls his hips against the man beneath.

A faint moan escapes Sherlock and he arches his back, wrapping his feet around John's hips, pressing him closer.

"Pushy," John chides in amusement.

"Take me already," Sherlock commands and it would have worked if he hadn't whispered it, breathless and needy.

Without the heat motivating him, Sherlock must be one bloody cocky bottom, John muses but quickly derails that train of thought.

He has no guarantee that they will share a bed when the heat is over.

Perhaps that's what spurs him into action, nudging Sherlock's legs apart and settling between them. Sherlock's cock is leaking precome onto the skin of his stomach and John buries his nose into the dark curls in Sherlock's groin, drinking in the smell of sex and lust and spicy-sweet slick already pooling below.

With one swift motion John flips Sherlock over, noises of protest muffled by the pillow and then his tongue is on Sherlock's back, cool and wet against the still hot skin.

Sherlock shivers, throws his head back in a silent moan which turns feral when John cups his cheeks and pulls them apart, tongue sliding closer until he reaches the cleft of his arse and the man beneath him stills in anticipation.

It occurs to John that no one ever did this to Sherlock before, a thought which makes him tighten his grip and slide his tongue lower until he can feel the hole. The slick tastes like Sherlock, spicy-sweet, and it will hunt John in his dreams, he knows it even now as he circles the ring and breeches it, dipping his tongue inside.

Sherlock is keening, squirming against the mattress, and John swirls his tongue, drawing back and pushing in in a steady rhythm that has the other man whining with pleasure. John pushes and pushes until he can kiss the ring and suck tentatively, but the sensation is enough to have Sherlock arching his back and crying out, loud and animalistic, in pure need.

John loses himself in the smell, the taste of Sherlock on his tongue. He pulls Sherlock's hips up a little, winds his hands around the body and touches Sherlock's pulsing cock, works him in time with his tongue until he feels the muscles contract around it and Sherlock is coming hot over his fist.

John drapes himself over the omega, possessive instincts taking over, a voice in his head chanting _mine, mine, mine_, and he sucks a love bite onto Sherlock's shoulder, stroking the purple bruises on his hip with deep satisfaction.

It doesn't take long before Sherlock stirs again, turning and rolling on top of John who can do nothing but gaze up into blue eyes.

Sherlock's hands skate across his chest, arms, stomach, touch the drop of fluid at the tip of John's cock in wide-eyed fascination.

Sherlock's eyes glaze over before focussing on his cock again and it is the only warning John receives before warm lips close around the tip and a tongue licks at the glans. Sherlock slides his tongue across the slit and down along the shaft as he swallows as much as he can take, starting to move and suck. John fights to keep his eyes open because the image of Sherlock's cheeks hollowing and his cock buried inside that mouth sends waves of pleasure through his body.

The hand that is not working his shaft dips down until it massages John's balls. He moans as his hips snap up, hitting the back of Sherlock's throat accidentally and John is about to apologise when he notices that Sherlock's pupils are even more dilated than before and firm hands push his hips forward, urging his cock into Sherlock's mouth.

John's brain short-circuits for a moment at the implication, but then he buries his hands in those black curls and fucks up into the tight heat of Sherlock's mouth, noticing the tears in the corners of Sherlock's eyes but the content humming noises tell him it's alright.

One particularly deep push has John crying out Sherlock's name and he pulls the man off before it's over way too soon. Sherlock slides up his body, salvia and precome leaving traces on pale skin, and then his mouth is on John's and he can taste himself on Sherlock's tongue as they devour each other.

His hands find Sherlock's hips and lift them up until the omega catches on. He can see Sherlock's thighs quiver as he grips his cock and aligns himself, nodding at Sherlock who sinks down slowly, taking him inch by inch, moaning above him.

"Ride me," John orders, and sees blue eyes roll back inside Sherlock's head before he does as commanded, moving in a steady rhythm.

He wants to stay like this forever, buried deep inside that heat, breathing in Sherlock's scent.

Sherlock shouts when he finally hits his prostate and John grips his hips to support him, making it easier to find that spot again and again. John is mesmerised by Sherlock's face, screwed up in pleasure, so expressive, so human.

He can feel that he is getting close so he fists Sherlock's cock, thumb spreading the fluid leaking from the tip, and the omega loses his rhythm as his hips stutter.

John sits up swiftly, presses Sherlock flush against his chest and ruts up against him, cants his hips until he finds that spot and Sherlock clings on so tightly that John thinks he will have bruises for a week, but he doesn't care.

His knot fills and the next time Sherlock slams down, John pushes hard, holding the omega down, knot breaching the wet hole easily this time. Sherlock's eyes fly open and they find John's before Sherlock leans in and presses their lips together in an open-mouthed kiss. It's messy with too much teeth because John is pushing into Sherlock again and again, pressing him against his chest so Sherlock's cock is enveloped by their bodies, but it's perfect nonetheless.

Sherlock bites his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood as he comes with a shout and it only takes John a few more pushes before he fills Sherlock up deep inside of him, the knot trapping his release.

John shuffles back until he hits the head board, Sherlock a dead weight against his chest but a welcome one. He presses his lips to Sherlock's forehead tenderly, rubs soothing circles across his back and waits for him to return from the high.

xXx

It is late afternoon as Sherlock's eyes are finally clear of the heat when he opens them.

John has lost count of how many times he was inside Sherlock in the past hours, of how often his mouth mapped the pale skin, of how often he held the omega down with brute force and claimed him with hard thrusts.

They look at each other for a long time and John is almost sad the heat has passed, that those blue eyes are as piercing as before.

"We should clean up," he suggests and Sherlock straightens immediately, disappearing into the bathroom without another word. John climbs off the bed, considers the stained sheets and for the first time notices the smell in the room.

He opens a window with his authorisation code and changes the sheets. By the time he is finished, Sherlock is still in the bathroom, so John opens a cabinet to retrieve fluffy pants and a soft shirt which he leaves on the chair inside the bathroom.

Steam is rising above the curtain and the urge to simply step inside as well is overwhelming, _but the heat is over_, John reminds himself. Sherlock isn't an omega in heat in need of release anymore, he is their hostage, and even though he consented in a moment of desperation, that doesn't give John the right to assume there is any kind of connection between them.

He knows of bonds, and their mixed scents make his heart beat faster and the Alpha inside him growl possessively, yet he supresses every implication and every possible reaction.

A piece of paper at the bottom of the door catches his attention. He muses someone must have pushed it through the slit above the floor when they noticed he was gone.

John really isn't looking forward to his next meeting with the Triumvirate or the Council for that matter.

The note is brief, telling him to report to Adler, Bhabha, and Thoreau as soon as the hostage's heat has passed.

John is gathering his clothes when Sherlock steps out of the bathroom, curls damp, smelling like soap and water, the shirt lose around his body.

John passes him by with a nod and is soon immersed in hot water, scrubbing away Sherlock's scent with a heavy heart.

Once he is dried off and dressed he returns to the room to find Sherlock sitting on the bed, looking at his bare feet.

"How are you feeling?"

Sherlock looks up and merely nods.

"I'm sure even you are hungry now, so I'll have someone bring you food and plenty of tea."

He catches the smile that skitters across Sherlock's expression.

"I'll see what I can do to have you stay here for a little while longer."

Another nod. John wishes that Sherlock would say something, anything, to reassure him that things are alright between them.

Sherlock clears his throat when his hand is on the keypad next to the lock, so John turns.

Sherlock's eyes are soft as they meet his.

"I just…" He swallows nervously and John can't believe that Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, omega in heat and a post-heat Sherlock Holmes are the same person. "It was very considerate of you to help me."

It is probably as near to an actual thank you that Sherlock allows himself to get; the thought makes John smile.

"You're welcome."

They share one last look and then John leaves the room.

His first action is to down what feels like a gallon of water, then he switches on the stove and cooks, brews tea and instructs two of his soldiers patrolling the hall to take the food, water and tea to Sherlock's room.

xXx

**End Notes:** There goeth the porn :)

Any particularities about A/B/O-physiology are due to the fact that I'm no expert... I did my research but I ended up writing it the way it suited the story and the characters, just fyi. For future references, in my verse, omegas are self-lubricating even outside the heat (when aroused). Just to avoid confusion^^


	3. Calm Before The Storm

**Chapter 3 – The Calm Before The Storm**

They hardly dare to meet his eyes and he wonders belatedly if that is because of his scent, strong despite the shower, telling everyone who can smell how strong an Alpha he is.

He returns to his room for a masking perfume he wears most days before he finally makes his way to the conference room where he will hopefully find both their leaders and information on recent developments.

When he enters, three pairs of eyes shoot in his direction, nostrils flaring ever so subtly. The atmosphere is so thick John is sure they have been arguing.

"Well, look who decided to join us," Marc drawls.

"Care to explain why you spent the past twenty-four hours with our heat-ridden hostage?" Irene is in full-on Alpha mode, glaring at him.

"I was obeying orders. I was in charge of his well-being -"

"Since when does mating qualify as taking care of a hostage?"

"You know as well as I do what could happen to an omega who's been supressing for so long if he has to suffer through his first heat alone! Don't tell me you wanted him to die!"

Marc falls silent. John turns to Bhabha, the only one in this room whose opinion truly matters to John.

The Omega considers him for a long moment. "Did he consent?"

"Yes. I made sure."

Bhabha nods, the gesture indicating the matter is to be dropped. Thoreau huffs and throws himself back into his chair.

"Any news from Mycroft Holmes?" John dares, although he fears he already knows the answer.

"His answer remains unchanged," Bhabha explains gravely.

"That is why we need to take drastic measures to show him we're serious."

"We're not torturing an innocent -"

"We've already abducted him, Bhabha."

"If you follow that logic, why not kill him immediately?"

"Enough!" Irene glares at the men. "The way I see it, we need to step up our game if we want to force Mycroft Holmes's hand. I must concede that torture seems a good option -"

"As is going public. Telling everyone how Holmes forced his own brother to change his nature to maintain his reputation is bound to have an impact." Bhabha visibly forces his voice to sound calm.

"And what then? We'll keep his brother as a pet?"

"Well, I'm sure our Captain would like that," Mark sneers and John feels the sudden urge to punch him.

Instead, he says diplomatically, "Isn't this a matter for the council?"

They agree, though reluctantly, and John is allowed to leave. Stepping outside, he collides with a civilian and almost sends them both crashing to the floor.

"I'm so sorry," the man stutters, then hurries off in the direction of the common rooms. John has seen him around before, though the fact that he can't remember his name proves how exhausted he really is. Rick? Richard? Richard B-something, he guesses.

He makes his way to sickbay, wanting to inform Sherlock of recent developments before he will collapse on his bed.

Sherlock looks up from where he is sitting cross-legged on the bed, clutching a cup of tea. The open window has removed most of the smell but there is still a faint whiff of that spicy-sweet scent in the air that will haut John in his dreams for nights to come.

"You okay?" A brief nod. "I just wanted to give you an update. Mycroft declined."

Sherlock looks unimpressed and sips his tea. John muses it is to safe him from having to ask the question.

"It's not been decided what will happen next. Thoreau wants to torture you and send your brother a tape, Bhabha wants to go public with your status. The council convenes tomorrow morning to decide."

Sherlock still doesn't say anything and John almost reaches out to caress his cheek – but when did he get close enough to touch?

His feet must have carried him to Sherlock's side on their own accord.

This close, the scent is stronger and it takes all of his self-control to stop himself from inhaling deeply. The expression on Sherlock's face in unreadable, his eyes piercing but detached.

"Have a good night," John says and turns too abruptly. Sherlock probably knows every thought going through his head, can read him like a book with his powers of deduction, so he doesn't even wait for a reply before he leaves the room and returns to his own, where he climbs into bed, alone.

xXx

The next day, everything goes to hell.

Lubitsch wakes him at six in the morning and urges him to follow him to the council chambers. In a haze, John learns that someone leaked Sherlock's abduction to the press, including details about his omega status and how the Reformists were toying with the idea of torturing him.

"We have a mole," Irene declares, eyes darting around the room. "We need to find the person responsible."

John does his best but to no avail. He is reporting back to Adler, Thoreau and Bhabha when Ghandi storms in, shouting "Turn on the TV!"

Mycroft Holmes is giving an interview, responding to the news about his brother. John hears "We're not negotiating with terrorists" again, followed by "We are forced into action to protect the Empire", and then it is chaos.

They are sure Mycroft will push for new laws, stripping even more people off their rights, and Ghandi tells them about rumours that the Revolutionists in France are planning to launch an attack, and for once all three leaders agree.

"We need to be prepared," Thoreau urges and the others nod.

"Captain, organise the troops," Bhabha orders him and John is off, preparing the Reformists' forces for a civil war that might start within the next few days.

The news of a novel law, declaring all who sympathise with the Reformists - no matter their status - an enemy of the Empire and fit for severe punishment, reach John an hour after the law has been passed.

It is almost ten at night when he has enough room to breathe and hear his stomach growl.

Oh no. Sherlock.

"Captain, you need to take a break," Lubitsch comments next to him. "I can finish these plans, you need to rest and eat."

John nods gratefully, already on his way to the canteen where he picks up a few sandwiches and water, then hurries to sickbay.

Sherlock is pacing when he enters, something close to worry etched on his features.

"I'm sorry," John says, setting the food down on the bed. "I should have come sooner."

"It's alright. As you know I require little food."

It makes John smile for the first time that day.

"Still, it's not healthy. Dig in."

He leads by example, grabs a sandwich and relaxes into the chair. He can feel Sherlock's eyes on him and wonders how much Sherlock knows without anyone telling him.

They eat in silence, but when he is finished, John rises again. Sitting makes him feel exhausted, makes him slow, but he needs to focus now, which is hard when Sherlock's scent is becoming harder and harder to ignore.

"You're tense, agitated, haven't eaten all day. I've heard people running around outside. Something's happened."

John stops pacing for a moment, takes a deep breath.

"We have a mole. They leaked the story about your abduction to the press."

Blue eyes narrow. "Yes, I see it now. Everyone knows, and my brother still won't negotiate. This gives him the perfect opportunity to push for new laws, which he probably already succeeded in, judging by how worn out you are. You're preparing for civil war."

Sherlock sounds almost bored, voice monotone, void of surprise or fear of what is to come.

"How can you be so - so cold about that?" John explodes.

"History is repeating itself," is all Sherlock says. His eyes are still on John, who grows even more restless under the gaze.

"There are lives at stake! People's lives! There're rumours about the Revolutionists launching an attack in France, can you imagine what that will do to London?"

"It will be the last spark necessary to ignite a civil war, I suppose."

John stares, dumbstruck by Sherlock's complete lack of care.

"Oh, don't be like that," Sherlock snaps, standing up. "It's all just petty politics. It doesn't matter if they call it democracy or Empire or federation. There will always be those who rule and those who are ruled. Everything else is just semantics."

"You can't believe that. Sherlock, you're an omega, you've suffered your entire life because your brother supports a system that makes people believe omegas are worth nothing! Don't tell me you don't care if we can make this country a better place!"

"The chances you'll succeed are slim."

"With an attitude like that, definitely."

They stare at each other, blue eyes piercing his and suddenly, John feels exposed, as though the eyes could see right into his soul.

Sherlock sighs, expression full of realization.

"You're scared." John feels his shoulders tense. "But why …"

Sherlock steps closer and brings a wave of spicy-sweetness with him. John wants to drown himself in it, forget the impending civil war, forget that he is the First Officer, responsible for so many lives.

"Oh."

Just like that, Sherlock knows exactly what he is afraid of. John can see it in his eyes, they have gone soft, understanding, not empathising but not judging either.

"Yes. Oh."

John takes a few steps back, gathers the empty plate and his water bottle and leaves.

He has a war to prepare for.

xXx

Tension lies thick over the HQ the next day. John doesn't forget Sherlock's meals this time, but delegates breakfast, lunch, and supper to others because he is too busy.

Ghandi cheers triumphantly around noon, shouting about "Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité!" and how the French have started their attempt to overthrow their government.

John doesn't hear how it ends, though, too immersed is he in preparations. He notes how thrilled Thoreau seems at the prospect of civil war, but then again, he has always had an eager trigger finger.

Bhabha accepts their fate reluctantly and John can see the fear in his eyes. A lot of people will die, especially omegas. Adler is hardly around, helping other chapters set up their defences with Lubitsch and Wilder.

John runs on too little sleep and too little food but still visits Sherlock when he is done for the day. He doesn't have to, he knows he has been given food, but something in him yearns to smell the scent of him, if only for a little while.

When he enters, Sherlock is crouched over something on the floor.

"What are you doing?"

"An experiment."

"Uh-huh. Care to specify?"

Sherlock looks up and puts down what seems to be a glass full of water.

"I've only lived as an omega for a few days. I'm conducting tests."

"Fair enough. As long as you're not trying to blow anything up."

"I'm not."

Sherlock sits back on his heels, looking up at him and suddenly, John is very much aware how close he is standing, that Sherlock could easily extend a hand and open John's fly –

He takes a step back. The moment is broken but the air is still tense around them.

"There's a revolution in France. Mycroft is hunting down sympathisers. I don't have more news."

He wishes that Sherlock would just look back down at his experiment so John could open the door and disappear again. His exhausted brain consumes every bit of the spicy-sweet air and he can feel something stir inside him at the sight of Sherlock, eyes still on him, sitting back on his heels.

The blue eyes leave his, but not to return to the experiment. Instead, they wander down his body, taking in the creases in his uniform shirt, and come to rest on his fly. Sherlock's mouth is slightly open, invitingly so.

Sherlock's gaze refocuses on his face, expression pained and almost ashamed. That is when it hits John, a wave of Sherlock's intense smell. He can almost smell the slick dripping out of Sherlock, can definitely smell his interest, and his own blood rushes south.

"Sherlock…" he begins, trying to make sense of the situation.

"I can't stop it," he grinds out, pushing himself up from the floor. "I can't stop these thoughts, it's torture. My mind never stops and now there's even more in it."

Sherlock is frustrated, confused, and John can't help that he thinks it is adorable. Sherlock has never learned to cope with his biology, to control his urges like John did. The pills did that for Sherlock and now he is at his body's mercy, which of course, upon the arrival of an Alpha, has taken interest, has started self-lubricating in anticipation of what might be to come.

"You will learn to cope," John reassures him. His feet want to step towards Sherlock, his hands itch, but he remains where he is, a few feet away.

It is Sherlock who draws closer, gradually, his steps indecisive at first, then firm as they close the distance between them. Sherlock is in his personal space, his scent filling up John's nose, pale skin mere inches away.

John's hand starts to shake from the effort of not touching and Sherlock notices, long fingers coming up to stroke up and down John's biceps through the fabric of his uniform. He is one second away from flinging himself at Sherlock, explicit consent be damned, ripping off all his clothes and taking him right here on the floor.

John closes his eyes, wills the image away. He jerks when he feels fingers against his lips, eyes fluttering open. Sherlock is even closer now, pupils wide enough to almost swallowing the blue entirely.

"Please, John."

Sherlock's voice quivers a bit, his eyes granting John permission to take it, take it all and within a second John is on him, spinning him around and pushing Sherlock against the nearest wall.

John presses close until they are touching each other from thighs to chest, and Sherlock gasps, mouth opening slightly in invitation.

John pins Sherlock's wrists against the wall as he loses himself in the heat of his mouth, sucking on Sherlock's tongue. A roll of his hips against Sherlock's has the omega moaning into their kiss, hips buckling for friction and John complies, pushes forward hard and fierce.

"Don't move," he growls, and then his hands are at the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, almost ripping it open. He wriggles it off Sherlock's arms and throws it to the floor before pinning his wrists against the wall again, reminding him to keep them there before his hands leave his wrists again. It takes all of two seconds until Sherlock's trousers follow and John frees his cock, leaking already. Sherlock whines when he gives him a few strokes, his hands moving away from the wall and grabbing at John's shirt.

"I said don't move," he commands and slams Sherlock's wrists back against the wall, pinning them with his left hand while his right opens his shirt and then his fly. He toes off his shoes, socks and trousers, air hitting his erection.

"Hold onto me," he orders and Sherlock complies without hesitation. His obedience sends a shiver down John's spine before he takes a hold of Sherlock's thighs and hauls him up. Instinctively, Sherlock winds his feet around John's waist as he presses Sherlock's back hard against the wall.

It takes a little bit of fumbling but then John drags the head of his cock over Sherlock's hole, making the omega jerk. John can feel he is wet and ready as two of his fingers enter the tight heat, stretching Sherlock as fast as he can.

Sherlock's head falls onto John's shoulder with a moan as he adds another finger, then hastily takes himself in hand, aligns and pushes in, antagonisingly slowly. Sherlock whimpers at every inch, desperate little sounds that make John's head spin.

When he is buried deep he lets Sherlock adjust for a moment before he begins to move, hands at Sherlock's hips, guiding them up and down.

He can feel Sherlock's fingernails digging into his back, and he speeds up, pounding into Sherlock who arches his back and rubs his cock against John's stomach.

When the strain in his thigh muscles becomes too intense, John's arms support Sherlock as he lifts him from the wall and lays him down onto the floor. Sherlock looks up at him, eyes dark, clouded with arousal and want and lust and John sets a brutal rhythm that has Sherlock shouting and screaming because John hits his prostate at every thrust. He balances himself on one hand, the other curling around Sherlock's cock, not moving.

Sherlock gets the drift and he fucks up into John's hand while John is thrusting deep and fast, mouth at Sherlock's collarbone, licking and sucking and biting.

John sinks his teeth into Sherlock's shoulder, deep enough to draw blood, and Sherlock's crying out, back arching off the floor as his orgasm washes through him.

John raises a come-covered finger to Sherlock's mouth, which opens and takes the finger in, licking it clean. John grunts, loses his rhythm briefly, but then Sherlock's eyes are open and he grabs John's wrist and labs at the other fingers, tasting himself on John's skin and John loses it. He feels his knot swelling and buries himself deep inside Sherlock, coming with a shout.

He collapses on top of Sherlock's lean form and has enough presence of mind to roll them over. It should be awkward because Sherlock is a little taller than him but he fits perfectly into John's side, knot still in place inside him.

It takes a while until John comes down from his high and opens his eyes. He finds Sherlock staring at him, brows furrowed in concentration.

"What?" he rasps, curious what kind of revelation Sherlock got from their actions.

"You can make it stop."

"Your mind?"

Sherlock nods and lies down again, fingers tracing patterns on John's chest muscles.

"How long?" he asks, intrigued.

"I'm thinking again."

John doesn't know what to make of that, so he doesn't comment, simply lies there on the floor, aware of the come sticking between Sherlock's body and his, but they won't be able to move until John's knot goes down.

He watches Sherlock, whose eyes are tracing the movement of his fingers, but he seems far away, deep in thought. John wonders what it is like inside Sherlock's head, constantly deducing. Being held hostage must be torture for him.

To think that Sherlock would have ended up as a slave if he hadn't had Mycroft Holmes as a brother is unbearable. This brilliant, amazing man being nothing more than someone's servant or companion in the bedroom is something John can't imagine.

All the more reason to fight for their cause.

"John?"

The question pulls him back to reality.

"Will you come back tomorrow?"

It occurs to John that it might be nothing more than an experiment for Sherlock, testing his newly found inclination, that he doesn't care that it is John and not any other Alpha, but he smiles and says, "Of course" anyway.

After John pulls out, they both go to the bathroom together to clean up and Sherlock returns to his experiment without another word.

John stands at the door, watching him for another moment before he leaves again.

xXx

News of France hit HQ around breakfast time. The government has fallen; the Revolutionists have declared a new, temporary government and plan on holding elections soon. Democracy prevails, close to the heart of the Empire.

Mike is excited when he tells John about how his students are secretly organising and arming themselves.

"The young are ready, John," he cheers. "The Empire will fall."

John fakes a smile because he doesn't want to dampen Mike's mood with straight facts about how the SAS is better equipped than their own forces, how the Reformists are at a strategic disadvantage.

John hurries back to HQ, eager to leave London above ground level for the atmosphere is ripe with tension. It is a powder keg that could explode at any second.

He spends the afternoon getting everything in order and in the end, he is almost satisfied. They are as ready as they will ever be.

Civil war can come.

xXx

Sherlock takes charge that night and John is happy to let him. He takes his time, exploring John's body, mapping out every inch of him and eventually riding him leisurely.

John marvels at the sight of the man, sweat glistening on his skin in the dim light from the nightstand. Sherlock's eyes are clear, concentrated almost, as he rotates his hips and discovers everything that has John buckling up, moaning and shouting, slowing down when he notices John is getting close and starting all over again.

He slides off but shuffles back quickly, lapping at John's cock still slick from entering Sherlock and the sight takes the breath out of his lungs for a moment.

"I want to feel it," Sherlock murmurs against the head. "Can I?"

"My knot?"

Sherlock hums eagerly, mouth already swallowing John down again.

"Keep going," he instructs and Sherlock does, hollows his cheeks as he sucks, drags the tip of his tongue along the shaft, hands massaging his balls.

John focuses on the tight heat, the heavenly pressure of Sherlock's tongue, feels his knot filling and Sherlock gasping around him as he notices.

He pulls off but continues fisting John's cock with one hand while his tongue licks experimentally at the blood-filled knot. John feels a spark of electricity jerk through his body, again and again as Sherlock laps at it, sucking and teasing until John thinks he is going to pass out from sensory overload. It is when Sherlock takes him in his mouth again, so deep that he can feel the back of Sherlock's throat and those lips close around his knot that it is all too much.

He shoots harder than he ever has before, white flashing before his eyes.

Sherlock never pulls off, drinking it all down while he is touching himself with hard, quick strokes. It doesn't take long and he comes all over John's hips, thighs and part of his stomach and John almost protests before Sherlock leans forward and licks him clean, blue eyes meeting his, an evil glint in them.

John doesn't expect Sherlock draping himself across his chest, not without the knot binding them together, but Sherlock does it anyway, a content smile on his lips.

He wants to ask if he found out what he wanted to know from this experience but chooses not to in favour of caressing the soft skin of Sherlock's shoulders.

Tomorrow they will be at war, so he may as well indulge.

xXx

In the end, it is the students who ignite the powder keg, marching to City Hall and declaring revolution.

It is half-planned, half-spontaneous but John and his soldiers are ready, armed, and uniformed, marching with the students.

Several lose their lives that day on both sides, but John carries out his mission as swiftly as possible, taking his best men with him inside City Hall, taking out guards with real bullets this time.

They are operating in the basement and hardly meet any resistance as they place the explosives where they will do most damage.

It is more symbolic than anything; neither John nor anyone else is naïve enough to believe that Mycroft Holmes or any of his colleagues are still in the building. Still, it is a pretty sight when it blows up, showering the heart of the Empire in black smoke and steel.

John returns with his team to HQ after that. There is going to be a long fight ahead, yet he is carefully optimistic.

A lot of civilians have joined them, barely armed but full of ideals, Betas, omegas and even Alphas fighting side by side against the ancient system of slavery.

He makes a bit of time to gather food and takes the plates to Sherlock's room. He can see several people shooting him glances, some judging, some appreciative, yet he ignores them all.

"Well, if you have time to cook, I take it you have overthrown the government already," Sherlock comments when he enters.

"A cold sandwich hardly qualifies as cooking," John replies with a startled laugh. "And no. City Hall is nothing but steel now yet it won't hold your brother back for long. This is the calm before the storm."

Sherlock nods and accepts the plate.

They eat in silence, John's thoughts wandering what will happen to Sherlock and if he shouldn't simply release him. They can't keep him here forever.

"So what happens tomorrow?" The omega is watching him closely and John knows any attempt at schooling his expression is a lost cause.

"I honestly don't know. We fight, I guess. Try to win."

"When will you have won?"

"When we have Mycroft in custody." He doesn't have to give the alternatives – when we have shot Mycroft – because he knows Sherlock is aware enough of the hard reality of civil war.

John can't promise he will spare Sherlock's brother, not when his finger itches to pull the trigger on a man who forced his own flesh and blood into an existence he never wanted.

Sherlock's finger brushes against the cut on his cheek, left by a passing bullet for all he knows.

John can see the man swallowing, jaw working, trying to figure out whether he should say something or not.

He keeps quiet, in the end. None of them says a word as they undress each other, but their kisses have a new edge to them and for the moment John lets himself believe that Sherlock will miss him when the morning comes and God knows what happens.

The illusion is complete when Sherlock, head resting against John's chest, their bodies locked together, says without looking up: "Stay."

xXx

They don't talk the next morning. John takes a quick shower and puts his uniform back on.

He holds Sherlock's gaze one last time before he opens the door and goes to retrieve his gun and enough ammunition to last him a week.

xXx

Only – there's a flaw in the plan. The Reformists aren't seeking the battle; the battle comes to them instead.

The alarms go off as John is meeting with Irene, Thoreau, and Bhabha, alerting them to a security breach.

"They found us out," Irene hisses and suddenly, everyone moves.

They have emergency protocols for this and John knows his men are already defending their HQ, so his thoughts jump to the omega, alone and unarmed in sickbay.

John hurries off, exchanging meaningful looks with the Triumvirate, and picks up a second gun on his way.

He knows all security codes so opening Sherlock's door is no obstacle. Blue eyes meet his the moment he is in the room. Sherlock's body is tense, not as scared as John would have expected.

"Do you know how to fire a gun?" he asks and Sherlock nods. John throws him the Sig and ammunition, then jerks his head. "Follow me."

Sherlock doesn't question him, then again he has probably worked out what is happening and can fill in the details as John guides him away from the noises of gunshots and shouting to a door that leads to the tunnels of the Tube.

John kicks the door open violently. "Go!"

A moment of hesitation, then Sherlock steps through the door and looks back, expression unreadable in the darkness.

"Thank you," he says softly, then disappears. The door swings shut behind him.


	4. Evil Has A Name

**Chapter 4 – Evil Has A Name**

**Warnings:** rather graphic torture, unpleasant!Mycroft (I'm not sure I'd call him evil but usually he's always rather nice in fics… not in this one, though, sorry. Consider yourselves warned!)

**Notes:** You will recognize several quotes from all over both seasons.

Also, this is my favourite chapter... it's quite the ride, so you better hold onto something :)

xXx

They manage to hold the SAS at bay long enough to bolt a door and retreat. John would rather call it "fleeing", though, he muses as he and his men filter into the streets of London at dusk.

The Reformists regroup and for the first time John grasps how strong their forces truly are. He feels his hopes grow stronger but can't help thinking of blue eyes and wonder if they are still shining with life.

xXx

Reports fly in from all colonies: the people are taking up arms and rebelling against the status quo now that civil war is raging in the heart of the Empire.

They are not losing but they are not winning either, Bhabha and Thoreau and Adler keeping the spirits high along with the leader of the students' movement. The Thames is separating them from the Traditionalists in the South, but every day more omegas and Betas cross the river – if they survive the escape – and join their ranks.

The real war rages underground in the Tube tunnels.

It is there that John and his team are cornered, surrounded by the SAS. Their mission was top secret. This shouldn't be happening.

When John recognises their leader, a tall woman named Anthea, directly accountable to Mycroft Holmes himself, he knows they are in more trouble than he previously thought.

"No one needs to die here," she calls out. "We only want Captain Watson. The rest of you can leave their weapons behind and go."

John swallows, then glances at Lubitsch and Wilder.

"Go," he orders.

"But Captain -" Lubitsch starts but John doesn't let him finish.

"That's an order."

One by one, his men put their guns on the ground and are allowed to leave, undeterred. When every last one of them is gone, Anthea draws a different gun – tranquilliser, John's mind supplies – and takes aim.

John blacks out before he hits the floor.

xXx

When he wakes up, his neck is hurting. He moves to massage it but can't; his wrists and feet are bound to a chair. Whoever did it knew what they were doing; John quickly realises he has no chance to escape the ropes.

His surroundings tell him nothing more than what he already knew – he is somewhere underground, on the other side of the Thames.

A key rustles and the door swings open to reveal Anthea, flanked by two men, all three of them armed.

"Finally he's in the land of the living."

They cut his ropes but replace them with handcuffs and guide him out of the room. That they don't bother with a blindfold tells John enough about how tight their security is to not try anything right away. He simply follows, an eerie calm settling over him.

They ride an elevator to a higher floor. A hotel, John realises, as he follows Anthea into a foyer, the two men behind him.

The brightness of the room hurts his eyes at first, so it takes him a while to see Mycroft Holmes standing in front of an empty chair, umbrella in hand. Mycroft Holmes always carries an umbrella and no one knows why.

There are more people in the room - John recognises several high-ranking officials, a room so full of Alphas that their scent drowns out the odour of the hotel. Something pulls at the edges of John's mind while the goons push him onward and his eyes wander until they find piercing blue ones, staring at him.

Sherlock Holmes, inscrutable mask tightly in place, is standing behind the major group of people. John's heart clenches as his look falls on the bruise on Sherlock's cheek bone and the collar around his neck.

Anger boils hot inside him but there is nothing he can do, it isn't safe, so he schools his expression as he faces Mycroft, whose smirk is way beyond pleased.

"Have a seat, John."

"I'd rather stand," he counters but Mycroft merely chuckles and motions to the goons behind him. Gloved arms grab his shoulders and force him down onto the chair.

"You don't seem very afraid." Mycroft's eyes are a cold grey, John notices.

"You don't seem very frightening."

This time, Mycroft actually laughs.

"Ah, yes. The bravery of a soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?"

John doesn't rise to the bait. He feels Sherlock's eyes on him and when he concentrates, he can smell a hint of his spicy-sweet scent underneath all the other sensations in the room.

"But let's not focus on simple semantics, John. You're surely wondering why you're here."

John cocks his head. "I'd guess you want information."

Mycroft gives him an appreciative smile.

"Indeed. What can you tell us about the new Reformist base of operation?"

This time, it is John's turn to laugh. "You honestly believe I will give you the blueprints and our whereabouts, just like that?"

"Sadly, no. But I can be very persuasive."

"I doubt that."

"Your loyalty is touching." Mycroft turns away after that and confers with Anthea, who leaves the room.

John isn't worried. He knows pain, has experienced too much of it to care. Pain passes, eventually. He glances across the room at Sherlock, takes in the collar and his daunt expression like he hasn't been sleeping well enough, and knows he has to protect his brothers in arms if he wants to see all collars banished from the face of the Empire.

Mycroft notices his glance, however brief it was.

"Yes, of course. You two met, I take it?"

"Briefly," John replies, not sure what Sherlock told his brother about his time with his captors.

"Sherlock, come here," Mycroft orders lazily. When his brother doesn't comply, he barks out, "Now!" and someone standing next to Sherlock pushes him forward.

The man looks completely out of place, stopping a few feet from Mycroft like a slave is taught to do. But there is still a fire in his eyes that soothes something in John, proof that Mycroft may have taught Sherlock new tricks but has in no way broken him.

"Sherlock here told me all about his time with you. I must say, letting Sherlock live through his first heat on his own is cruel even by Reformist standards, but then my brother can be quite stubborn and you probably didn't want to add rape to your kidnapping charges."

John isn't surprised that Sherlock failed to mention the details of their encounter and he replies without missing a beat. "Well, we respect every person's decisions, no matter their status."

"All this idealist talk is starting to bore me."

He waves dismissively at Sherlock, who rolls his eyes but does as he is told, and John could swear the corners of his mouth are curling up, as if to mock his brother for buying into Sherlock's obedience.

Anthea is back, a new soldier in tow with a brutal face and a sadistic grin in place.

John doesn't know how much time passes – everything is a blur of pain. They start with electroshocks but soon stop when they realise John isn't talking. They dip his chair back after that, pouring buckets of water onto his face and forcibly hold his mouth open. John never liked swimming and swears never to dive into a pool ever again while he is trying to catch his breath with Anthea firing questions at him.

Everyone else has gone; John didn't take Mycroft for a man to watch his minions torture people anyway.

"You ready to talk yet?" Anthea asks, sounding amused.

John shakes his head and they dip his chair back again.

The sun has gone down when they set the water buckets aside and go for his fingernails. They don't pull anything out – too barbaric for the civilised Empire, John muses – but the pain is worse than anything he ever imagined.

He shakes his head again and again until he feels hands rip open his shirt. Anthea pushes it back enough to expose his chest and stomach and suddenly John is fully aware of the small flame thrower in the new soldier's hands. They are heating a piece of iron which, John can only guess, bears the seal of the Empire.

As the hot iron burns his skin right above his heart, John screams for the first time that day.

xXx

They take him underground after that, bind his wrists and hang him up on them against the wall. Palestinian Crucifixion, his brain supplies belatedly. He is already exhausted, can hardly stand up, and when he falls asleep he will fall forward, putting all his weight on his shoulders.

He forces himself to stay awake but it is a lost battle. There is pain everywhere, each movement hurts and his body yearns to pass out until John can't hold his eyes open any longer.

Hands are on his shoulders, a voice whispers "John!" and he jolts awake, then cries out in pain as he feels the strain in his shoulders, the wound on his chest throbbing.

He blinks, can make out a man standing in front of him in the dark light of the cell. Blue eyes meet his and his heart leaps despite his confusion.

"Sherlock?"

"Keep quiet! I couldn't put too many sleeping pills in the guards' drinks."

"What?" he wants to ask but then he feels the rim of a bottle against his lips.

"Drink," Sherlock urges him and John does, small sips because his throat is hurting too much to swallow more. He drains the entire bottle anyway.

"Open your mouth," Sherlock murmurs and John obeys, tastes what appears to be a sandwich and bites down eagerly.

"Why are you doing this?" he rasps when half the sandwich is gone and his stomach starts to complain because of the strain.

"You have to stay quiet," is all he receives in answer and Sherlock holds the food up again.

John shakes his head. "I can't, no more."

Sherlock nods and puts the sandwich away, then turns and meets John's eyes. His look is still distant but the corners of his eyes are softer now and John wants to drown in the bright blue. He draws a deep breath and inhales Sherlock's scent, lets it fill him, soothe him.

"Sherlock," he begins, but a finger against his lips silences him.

"Shh. I'm working on a plan. Hold on a little longer – will you do this for me?"

John's thoughts are tripping over each other but he has enough presence of mind to nod. Sherlock withdraws his fingers and makes to leave, yet he pauses at the door. His feet carry him to John again, closer this time, incredibly close, before Sherlock places his lips above John's in a chaste kiss.

John's mouth parts and captures Sherlock's bottom lip between his before they draw apart again. He hears the door close silently behind him.

xXx

John loses all sense of time.

Only Sherlock's nightly visits hint at the hours that have passed, at how many days John has spent in that hotel, with barely enough food to keep him alive and the minimum of water. The food Sherlock sneaks in helps him hold onto his wits, so he still notices things.

Like Mycroft growing more and more impatient with him because he still hasn't talked.

It is day five when Mycroft enters the chamber, John shivering and wet from the water and the electroshocks that filled the hours of the day.

"John, John, John," he sighs and draws up a chair to sit down next to him. "I'm very disappointed in you. This amount of loyalty is not healthy."

John merely raises an eyebrow – not that he has the strength to do more than that anyway.

"I hate to say this but you leave me no other choice. We're going to execute you."

John's head snaps up, sending jolts of pain down his spine. He narrows his eyes at the man in disbelief. Executing an Alpha is a dramatic move, even for Mycroft.

"I know, I don't like it any more than you do. It will do wonders to break the rebels' spirit, though." Mycroft crosses his ankles leisurely. "So, what do you say? I'll give you another day and the day after that, we will take you outside where everyone can see and take a gun to your head."

John clenches his jaw and wishes looks could kill as he aims his most threatening glare at Mycroft. All the man does is chuckle.

xXx

"John." He wakes to Sherlock's hands on his shoulder. For the first time, John is allowed to lie down during the night, and he went out like a light the second he lay down on the floor.

"Sherlock." He smiles up at blue eyes, inhales deeply. The smell startles him. "Sherlock, you're -"

"I know."

Sherlock considers him with a grim expression. John hasn't realised that it has been that long already since they shared a bed, since Sherlock experienced his first heat. He doesn't dare imagine what will happen in a place like this when his body betrays him once again, without John there to make his mind stop.

"What are you going to -" he tries, but he is interrupted again.

"That isn't our highest priority right now, John. Drink."

John takes the bottle with shaking hands but manages to drink on his own without spilling too much and is ridiculously proud of it. He picks up the energy bar next, a highly nutritious substitute for the sandwich Sherlock brought him that first night.

When he is finished he looks up again, finding Sherlock deep in thought.

"Now might be a great time to fill me in on your plan," he rasps, voice hurting from lack of use.

Sherlock shakes himself out of his thoughts.

"It's quite simple, actually. Tomorrow night, when everyone is asleep. I've thought about every angle. Are you strong enough to fire a gun?"

"Yes." He isn't, not at the moment, but John knows what he is capable of it with enough adrenaline flooding his system.

Sherlock looks like he is reading his mind and a small smile tugs at his lips. John feels the sudden urge to kiss those lips, and he is finally in a position to actually do it, so he props himself up on one hand while the other cups Sherlock's face, thumb caressing his cheek, fingers winding their way into dark curls. Sherlock complies, follows the pull of his hand willingly and then they are kissing, soft and lazy, as if they have all the time in the world.

They don't, though. Sherlock pulls away far too quickly but it was enough to leave John dizzy and smiling.

"Sleep," Sherlock says and pushes him softly back down onto the floor.

xXx

They tune down the torture the following day, opting instead to leave John alone for long periods of time, presumably to consider if he would like to change his mind after all.

It never crosses his mind, not for one second, not even when they alternately hit him with burning hot and ice-cold water until his brain is about to shut down from sensory overload.

They throw him back into his cell at the end of the day, not bothering with food because he will be dead tomorrow anyway, but John wouldn't have had a chance to eat it for the moment he lies down, he passes out again.

He wakes up to lips on his, Sherlock's scent present in the room around him and John kisses back, enjoying the simple pleasure without reading too much into it.

Sherlock draws back and John opens his eyes. They fall on two guns on the floor, a bit of ammunition, two bottles of water and a few energy bars next to them. Sherlock is wearing a black coat, similar to the one they captured him in. He must have stolen it – he hasn't seen Sherlock wear it when he caught glimpses of him around the hotel.

"We have to hurry."

Sherlock extends a hand and helps him up, taking his weight when John's knees give out at first, not used to standing on their own for so long, but soon enough, his balance is back and he picks up the gun.

"I've planned a route and drugged the guards, yet the sooner we move the better."

He nods, then follows Sherlock out of the cell and through a maze of hallways that Sherlock deftly navigates. He probably has the layout memorised, John thinks in amazement as he follows, gun drawn, adrenaline pumping through his body, and he feels more alive than he has in the past week.

When Sherlock checks around a corner, his black coat shifts enough for John to see his neck.

"Sherlock, you still have the collar!" Collars have tracking devices, they need to take it off, now –

- but Sherlock holds up a key with a smirk. "We have to wait until we've escaped. It triggers an alarm when opened, even with the key."

John nods and they proceed. All guards on their way are fast asleep.

"I laced the canteen food," Sherlock explains curtly and picks the lock on a door, and another and another until they reach a deserted hallway. John has no idea how far below the surface they are.

Sherlock aims for a grating in the floor which he pulls out. John can see steps descending further underground.

"It leads into the sewers. It's not on the new schematics, though," Sherlock smirks, looking utterly pleased with himself.

"Amazing," is all John can breathe out.

He takes Sherlock's collar off a few doors down because the next door leads into the Tube tunnels and they want to leave a false trail. John resists the urge to stomp on the collar when he flings it to the ground. Sherlock's right hand is rubbing his neck.

"You okay?"

"Fine." The tone is nonchalant, yet John can see that Sherlock's eyes have gone softer and his spine isn't as tense as before.

The climb into the sewer canals is difficult since John keeps missing the steps or slips when his hands cramp up from the strain of holding on for dear life. When his feet hit solid ground, he sighs in relief and leans against the wall next to the steps, trying to catch his breath.

"Come on, we have to hurry," Sherlock says when he jumps down from the ladder and John has to bite back a comment about how he sounds like his brother when he uses that tone.

Instead, he follows Sherlock's lead.

"Where are we going?"

"I have an ally; we can hide at his place for a few hours before we try to get across the river."

"I thought you didn't have friends?"

"He is no friend." Sherlock's expression is unreadable. "But he is a sympathiser. He has helped me before."

Sherlock doesn't say anything else and keeps walking.

xXx

John has never been happier to be able to breathe fresh air. He gulps it down like he wants to drown himself in it as he runs after Sherlock through the night, stars shining above them.

Their destination is an apartment building, nestled between more apartment buildings in one of the nicer parts of town. Sherlock rings the doorbell next to a nameplate that reads "Lestrade".

"Yeah?" a voice asks through the intercom.

"Your pizza, sir," Sherlock replies and the sound of a buzzer signals that the door is open.

They climb up to the third floor where a door is slightly ajar and Sherlock slips in, John right behind him, gun at the ready because one can never be too careful.

The apartment is cramped but cosily so. Books, magazines, and newspapers fill the cupboards in the hallway, and the living room looks much the same. Sherlock's eyes take everything in and John can hear his mind working, deducing, drawing conclusions.

The man in the living room is in his early forties, hair already greying, but his face is honest and he holds his hands up calmly when he catches sight of John's gun.

"Lestrade, meet Captain John Watson, John, this is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade."

John lowers the gun slowly and meets Lestrade's hand when he extends it in greeting.

"Pleasure," the DI says and actually sounds like he means it.

"So you're the DI who -"

"Whose case you manipulated to kidnap Sherlock. Yes." It is said teasingly – clearly Lestrade doesn't hold too big a grudge.

"Well, I caught your serial killer," Sherlock drawls as he slips out of his coat, revealing he is wearing dress trousers, shirt and jacket. If it weren't for the marks the collar left where it rubbed against Sherlock's neck, one would never assume he had been a slave.

"You did," Lestrade concedes.

Sherlock sniffs the air. "I'll use the shower, I reek of the sewers. Lestrade, if you could hand John a first-aid kit, I'm sure he has some wounds to tend to."

They are both staring after Sherlock who disappears through a door – presumably into the bathroom.

John clears his throat. "He means thank you. For harbouring us."

The DI chuckles. "It's the least I can do, being on this side of the Thames and all."

He steps past John into another room and returns with a first-aid kit. "Take what you need."

"Thank you." John sets the box down on the living room table and gratefully sinks into an armchair while Lestrade takes the seat opposite him.

"Sherlock said you helped him before?" John asks, retrieving salve and bandages for the wound on his chest.

"He came to me after he escaped from you, said because I'd already figured out he was an omega anyway and never said anything, I could as well take him in for a night or two."

John looks up at that, giving the DI a questioning look.

"I've known Sherlock for a bit now," he explains, "and if you're a detective long enough you learn to read the signs. He's always been different, especially as an Alpha, but most guys just thought he's weird."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"‛cause it made no difference, really. Most of the time I really want to punch him but he's still the best detective I know, so…"

John can imagine that all too well - Sherlock's cocky attitude at a crime scene, flaunting in and out, one look enough to tell him who the murderer is.

He opens his shirt, for the first time really noticing how dirty it has become during his week in captivity.

"I'll give you some clothes," Lestrade says, then winces as he catches sight of the mark, standing out starkly against John's skin.

"You need help with that?"

"Actually, yes. My shoulders still aren't very useful."

"Do I want to know?"

John shakes his head, smiling despite himself, granting Lestrade access to the wound which he tends to with steady hands. During his time with the police he probably had to deal with his fair share of injuries, John muses.

"You can have the guest room for tonight. It's only got one bed and I don't have a spare mattress but I doubt that will be a problem?"

John splutters at Lestrade's raised eyebrow.

"I haven't made DI because of my looks, you know."

"What gave it away?" John can't help but ask.

"When Sherlock came here I asked him if he had gone into heat yet and he was really quiet about that. Then after he had gone and his brother found him, I read that you guys let him suffer through his heat alone. Doesn't add up in my books. And then he contacts me, says he might need refuge for a while for himself and another Alpha. Doesn't take a genius to figure that out."

Lestrade shrugs and applies the bandage over the wound carefully.

"So one bed okay?"

John doesn't really know what to say. It would mean actually thinking about what has been happening between him and Sherlock and he doesn't know if that is a good or just a really terrible idea. He settles for "I'm not sure… it's complicated."

Lestrade must have inferred his inner monologue – after all, he knows Sherlock "I don't have friends and my body is merely a vessel" Holmes, too.

"I'm sure there are enough blankets to make one of you comfortable on the floor, if not."

Sherlock returns quickly after that, fresh out of the shower, hair still damp, and John takes his turn, accepting what looks like old police trousers and a dark shirt as well as pyjama bottoms and a worn t-shirt from Lestrade. It takes a while but in the end, all the dirt of the past days has washed off, along with the scent of the sewers, and he slips into the sleep clothes.

Back in the living room, John accepts pizza and tea from their host – the pizza is reheated but the tea is hot, and at this point John hardly cares as long as it is food.

They develop a plan: rest tomorrow and move at nightfall, when the darkness serves as at least a bit of cover. Lestrade knows of certain Tube tunnels that are farther West but less dangerous to pass. The plan isn't bulletproof, but it is all they have.

Now that the adrenaline isn't coursing through his blood anymore, John can feel the exhaustion creep into his extremities, can feel his eyes droop.

"Well, I know who needs to go to bed right now." Lestrade rises, Sherlock and John mirroring him. The DI disappears into another room, returns with a pile of blankets which he deposits in the guest room and wishes them a good night.

John stops awkwardly at the foot of the bed, unsure whether he should offer to sleep on the floor or suggest they share.

Sherlock is already changing into another pair of worn trousers but ignores the t-shirt Lestrade gave him and throws back the covers.

"Come on," Sherlock beckons and it is really that easy – John slips in with Sherlock.

The mattress feels like heaven against his back after nights of sleeping with his hands tied to a wall or lying on the bare floor. He gives a contented sigh which Sherlock seems to think is amusing somehow, yet John doesn't find it in himself to care as the other man shuffles closer and buries his face in the crook of John's neck like he did those nights at HQ.

John presses a kiss to Sherlock's forehead, wrapping his arm around the other man and allows sleep to take him.

xXx

John spends most of the next day sleeping like a dead man. He makes out the tell-tale noises of Sherlock moving around the apartment, believes he hears newspapers rustle, wakes up once to find tea and a sandwich next to the bed and eats it, after which he promptly falls asleep once more.

He feels almost like himself again in the late afternoon hours when he takes another shower simply because he can and then goes looking for Sherlock. Lestrade is apparently out working, keeping an ear open in case he hears anything about John's escape.

"Lestrade said to help ourselves to the fridge," Sherlock says, not looking up from the newspaper in his hands.

John makes bacon and eggs, enough for the both of them because he sees no dirty plates lying around, which means Sherlock probably hasn't eaten.

Sherlock narrows his eyes when John pushes the plate towards him, as well as another mug of tea.

"Eat. We're planning to cross the Thames today, you need your strength."

"Yes, mummy," Sherlock shoots back with an eye-roll, but he eats the food anyway.

They are packed and ready at nightfall, not that they have much with them beyond water, energy bars, and ammunition, when they hear the key turn in the lock of the front door.

"Lestrade's early," Sherlock wonders. John tenses up immediately, hand darting to his gun.

He has it out the moment the door opens, but the newcomer merely smiles.

"Please, as if I don't have sharp shooters on that roof. I don't like to get my hands dirty." He brushes down the front of his suit as if to prove his point.

John glances at Sherlock and does a double take as he sees a distinctive red dot moving across his chest, hovering right above his heart.

"There's one on your back as well, John."

Recognition hits him like a bucket of cold water. "Richard Brook?"

The man's laugh is malicious and kind of insane. "Not really. Jim Moriarty. Hi!"

xXx

**End Notes:** I know, evil cliff hanger :) I'm decidedly not sorry!


	5. Where Loyalties Lie

I'M POSTING EARLY BECAUSE I JUST BOUGHT HAMLET TICKETS FOR 2015 AND I'M SO EXCITED!

**Chapter 5 – Where Loyalties Lie**

Notes: A little helpful information: The Reformists own London north of the Thames, the Traditionalists the part south of it.

xXx

"Moriarty?" Sherlock sounds as if he knows the name. "You're the one who made the cabbie kill those people."

"Yes, that was an exciting one, wouldn't you say?" His dark eyes land on John and turn cold. "Of course, our soldier had to come and ruin it. I had such great plans for Sherlock here. I've wanted to give you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see… like you!"

John glances at Sherlock again, whose expression changes to something akin to amazement.

"Consulting criminal. Brilliant," he breathes out, but how he drew this conclusion, John cannot fathom.

Moriarty, meanwhile, is smiling proudly. "Isn't it? No one ever gets to me – and no one ever will."

"I would have."

"You would," Moriarty admits. "Now you're in my way."

"Thank you."

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes, you did."

Moriarty shrugs. "Yeah, okay, I did. But the flirting's over, Sherlock… Daddy's had enough now!" he adds in a high-pitched sing-song voice that makes the hairs on John's neck stand up.

"Why?" John finally asks. "We're at war, what has Sherlock got to do with anything?"

Another malicious laugh. Moriarty's eyes are on him now. "You see, it's not only about Sherlock here, it's also about you. If I let you return to your comrades, they will rejoice, grab new hope, yadda yadda yadda, and the civil war is over before the fun has really started."

"That's a good thing!"

"A few nations disagree."

"Of course," Sherlock breathes out. "An unstable Empire brings a lot of people a lot of money."

"I knew you would understand," Moriarty smiles and John wants nothing more than to wipe it off his face.

"People will die!" he shouts instead.

"That's what people DO!" The last word rings loud in John's ears but Moriarty is already smiling again. "Like you will, very soon. Any last words?"

John's mind is reeling, has been for the past minutes, desperate to come up with an exit strategy, though he doesn't know how fast the sharp shooters will react if he moves.

He has lowered his gun but he still has it; he could shoot fast, but probably not fast enough. Then he sees it.

Sherlock is talking, yet the words don't register as John maps out their escape.

"Well, I'd better be off," Moriarty announces, bouncing on his heels.

"Not so fast," John says, raising his hands with the gun turned to the side. "I have one last question."

"Now or never, John."

He catches Sherlock's eyes and prays to whatever Gods are out there that the man catches on quickly.

Then he whirls around, aims, shoots, ducks, grabs the sleeve of Sherlock's coat and drags him to the floor with him as the gas from the fire extinguisher fogs the apartment in thick, white smoke, clouding everyone's view.

Together, they crawl towards the hallway, as quick as they can. They jump to their feet and hurry down the stairs, John constantly checking if Moriarty is following them.

The second they are out of the front door, John freezes. Another shooter, dressed in black, is aiming a gun at Sherlock and John has a split second to register that the man's trigger finger is moving and to make a decision.

He pushes Sherlock aside and takes a shot of his own, knows before his bullet makes contact that it hits the man's heart, then falls to the ground as pain erupts somewhere near his left ribs.

The shooter is down, John sees, but the pain tells him that the man had time to pull the trigger. He scrambles to his feet, sees Sherlock do the same after he fell due to John's push but he seems unharmed so they are off again, John running after Sherlock who turns two corners and enters a garden. At the back of the house is another shaft, already opened - John suspects Lestrade's involvement - and they are climbing again, John's hands steadier this time.

John hurries after Sherlock until the man stops inside what looks like a very old Tube tunnel.

He collapses against the wall, not really feeling the pain but fully aware of the blood soaking his shirt.

Sherlock is suddenly in front of him and crouches down to take a closer look.

"There's a lot of bleeding but it looks like it just grazed the skin."  
"That's good," John breathes out heavily.

Sherlock pulls his scarf off and presses it against the wound, placing John's hand over it to hold it in place.

Sherlock rises, meeting his look with soft eyes, then averts his gaze again. "That, er… thing that you, er, that you did; that…" He clears his throat awkwardly. "That was… good."

John feels his throat constrict so he simply nods, chest tight. It occurs to him that he could easily have died when he pushed Sherlock aside, a possibility that his brain had surely registered but ignored completely when it decided to make his body jump and shoot.

He reaches out without thinking, dips Sherlock's chin up so that their eyes will meet and just looks because he doesn't know what to say, has no clue what one says when you realise you are ready to take a bullet for someone.

He does the only thing that makes sense – he kisses Sherlock, hoping it will express everything he is trying and failing to say. After a brief hesitation, Sherlock kisses back, eager and passionate, taking John's breath away.

Eventually they have to pull apart; they are not safe yet, still on the run. John smiles and nods, adrenaline thrumming through his veins, a sudden sense of euphoria making him dizzy, and they continue on their way.

xXx

Sherlock knows he should be watching their surroundings, listen for sounds of a possible threat, yet his eyes wander back to John sleeping next to him, snoring faintly, head resting on the bloodied scarf.

His brain scrambles for words to describe his feelings, but then feelings have never been his strong point. He can read other people's emotions, sure, but his own were always a mystery. It was easier when there was no one in his life he interacted with regularly except Mycroft and Lestrade and perhaps Molly from the morgue, but those relationships were always clear, never confusing.

Hell, John is confusing. The man is a paradox, full of contradictions. He is a soldier to the bone, a good one, too, can kill with swift efficiency but has learned to heal as well. He likes order, yet fights in a civil war that throws the country into turmoil. He kidnaps Sherlock, brother of the Reformists' worst enemy, then shows kindness.

His scent makes Sherlock feel safe, secure, it is addictive and Sherlock can't seem to get enough of it, recognised it the moment Anthea brought him in, couldn't stay away from him then.

Sherlock remembers how his heart did something strange when he saw John hanging from the wall, remembers something akin to panic overcome him when he heard Mycroft was planning to execute John, remembers the sweet kisses neither his nor John's biology had excused at the time, remembers how his heart stopped for a moment when he heard the shot and thought that John had died, killed by a bullet meant for him.

His hand, developing a mind of its own, winds its way into John's hair, stroking softly, and he hears the man hum in his sleep.

Sherlock smiles down at the sleeping figure and wishes he could curl up next to him, bury his face in the crook of the neck that accommodates him perfectly.

Physical proximity used to put Sherlock off, still does, but it is different with John – with John he is yearning for it.

xXx

He lets John sleep for a few hours before he wakes him and they continue on their way. Sherlock can see their progression in his mind, knows which turns to take and when, where the soldiers probably are, where they could be.

"How did you end up at Mycroft's?" John asks out of the blue. "Lestrade told me you came to him first."

"I returned to my flat shortly after. I wanted to grab a few things but my brother was already waiting. I miscalculated."

"How did they treat you?" Sherlock can hear the unvoiced questions in the inflection, can imagine John's body language even without turning around.

"Fine. I had to work for Mycroft constantly. It was tedious."

"They didn't hurt you?"

Sherlock shakes his head. He knows that some wanted to, but Mycroft still believes in treating slaves with respect.

Respect. Slaves. That bloody collar.

Sherlock's hand feels his neck, checking that it is really gone even though he knows it is.  
They encounter a patrol, only two men but proof that they are getting closer to the unofficial border.

John takes them out efficiently, then searches their bodies and appropriates the ammunition while Sherlock retrieves their radios, which pays off soon. They manage do dodge two more patrols before their luck runs out.

They turn a corner and stumble over two soldiers taking a break who scramble to their feet the second they are in sight. It comes down to hand-to-hand combat and both John and Sherlock survive with minimal bruising while they leave the men behind, one bleeding out from his own knife, one with his neck broken by John's bare hands.

xXx

John guesses it is late afternoon when they finally cross underneath the Thames, having circled wide to avoid the strongest patrols. Sherlock found a set of deserted tunnels in the end and is sure that they will be able to walk on undisturbed.

A few hours later, John's knees buckle and he crashes to the floor.

"I vote for a break," he pants, aware that Sherlock is already on the floor next to him helping him up.

"Let's look for a dark corner where we're hidden from view."

They settle deep in the shadows, Sherlock positioning himself in a way that he can play lookout again, but John is having none of that.

"I'm a light sleeper, come on, I will hear anyone who comes near us." He pulls Sherlock down, pleased when he complies.

"If they cut our throats, it's all on you," he snaps but there is no real bite behind it. The way he snuggles up against John's chest also doesn't help his case.

"Sherlock Holmes, cuddler. Who'd have deduced that." Sherlock freezes, but John squeezes him with the arm around his back. "I like it."

"Oh," Sherlock comments, voice soft. He nestles his head in the crook of John's neck, a perfect fit, and John allows the spicy-sweet scent to fill his lungs.

They don't manage more than a few hours but it is enough for John to regain some of his strength.

xXx

Their pace has been slowing down, gradually but it has, and it is his fault entirely, John knows it. The bleeding has stopped but the wound still hurts, and he tires quickly now. They have no more food left so they press on.

Sherlock's strides have become shorter, John notices, and he is grateful for it because he doesn't have to hurry so much to keep up.

John told Sherlock everything about where the Reformists have put up camp, where they defended their part of the city and he trusts Sherlock's skills to guide them somewhere they can make contact.

They have gone west, crossed the Thames somewhere near Vauxhall and are now heading further northwest. If they were above ground level, John would probably recognise where they are but in the darkness of the Tube tunnels, it is anyone's guess.

"There's a door coming up on our left," Sherlock says suddenly. "It leads to the District Line."

"Which station?"

"Earl's Court," Sherlock answers without missing a beat.

"You are brilliant." It escapes John before he can stop the words and Sherlock turns toward him. He almost looks incredulous, as if no one had ever said these words to him.

"Of course I am." Sherlock aims for arrogance but John can hear the slight hint of insecurity, can see it in those blue eyes that are boring into his as though looking for the answers to the universe.

"You truly are."

They continue looking at each other until John realises they have a decision to make, then belatedly catches up with the fact that Sherlock left the decision up to him.

He clears his throat.

"We should take it, go through the door. We have patrols there."

Sherlock nods, turns away and walks on.

xXx

John hears footsteps before he sees the men they belong to. His left arm stretches out to stop Sherlock, who has fallen into step beside him rather than in front of him ever since they passed through the door.

He can feel Sherlock's pulse quicken underneath the thin fabric of the shirt.

The noises indicate a patrol of four, it is their designated number of men per team, so John is fairly certain they are dealing with his men.

"Who's there?" he calls out and the footsteps still around the corner.

"The future," a voice John recognises shouts back. He feels elation course through his body when he realises who they've run into. "Who's there?"

"A supporter of the Triumvirate," he calls back instead of following protocol, hoping that Lubitsch would get the joke.

Silence. Then, "What's your name?"

"Captain John Watson, First Officer of the Reformists."

"Prove it," Lubitsch commands and John can't help the proud smile. He taught his men well, it would seem.

Sherlock next to him is following the exchange with faint interest.

"The last time we had time to have a beer, you told me about your crush on one of the nurses - Emily, I think -, waxing poetry about her eyes and hair. Shall I go on? Because you told me a lot more embarrassing things that evening."

He glances over at Sherlock, who – John can hardly believe his eyes – is laughing quietly.

"John? Blimey… You can come around, sir, we won't shoot you."

With a jerk of his head he indicates to Sherlock to follow as he approaches the corner of the Tube tunnel.

"I'm on my way, but I'm not alone. Don't shoot."

He doesn't let go of his gun but has his arms raised at shoulder height, gun pointed outward, as he steps into his men's field of vision. It truly is Lubitsch, flanked by three men in uniform, weapons drawn, but John can see they are not ready to shoot.

"Bloody hell, it's really you!" Lubitsch lowers his gun and smiles radiantly, as though seeing John is the best thing that has happened to him all day, and he indicates the others to put their weapons away.

John pushes his Sig in his waistband when Lubitsch's eyes catch sight of the man behind him.

"Is that Sherlock Holmes?" His fingers tighten around his gun but John raises his hand and draws himself up to his full height.

"Yes. He is an ally. Don't shoot. That's an order."

Lubitsch obeys without hesitation. If Sherlock were capable of looking impressed, this would be it, John muses as he smirks at the man.

When they have reached the soldiers, Lubitsch sees the blood on John's shirt, dry by now but still visible for what it is.

"You're hurt, sir."

"Just a scratch, it's stopped bleeding. I could do with something to eat, though. We both could."

"Of course, sir. Follow us, there's a base of operations in South Kensington Station, it's not far."

They fall into step with the soldiers and for the first time in a week, John allows his body to relax properly. A glance to his side tells him that worry is still etched in the lines of Sherlock's body and John can empathise – these were the very men that held him prisoner for a week.

"What's our status?" John asks, eager to learn news. It is good news, as it turns out. They still haven't gained an inch of London, but more supporters keep joining them every day, either from the surrounding area or from across the river. They are strong in numbers and with Sherlock's knowledge of his brother's strategies on their side, John feels they might even win this war soon.

If Sherlock cooperates, that is.

"Sir, what happened to you? We heard nothing, no ransom demand, not even a threat." It is one of the soldiers; John is sure he has seen him before but he can't recall his name.

He sighs and wonders how often he will have to tell the story of his capture during the next hours. "They took me to a sort of hotel, tortured me for information. When they finally realised I wasn't going to talk, they decided to kill me instead."

"Is that when you escaped, sir?"  
"Yes. Sherlock broke me out. I couldn't have done it without him."

The soldier stares quietly, eyes darting from John to Sherlock, whose stoic expression doesn't change except for his eyes: there is warmth in them when they meet John's.

"Oh, thank you for bringing him back to us, Mr Holmes!" the man says with a blinding smile.

Sherlock opens his mouth, trying to find the appropriate answer.

"Just say you're welcome already," John chuckles and gives Sherlock a playful shove with his shoulder.

"Er, thank you," he mutters, but the soldier seems happy enough about it.

xXx

South Kensington Station welcomes John like a hero, cheering when they see him, expressing their happiness that he is alive, firing questions at him while at the same time handing them a sandwich each.

Lubitsch has disappeared into the communication room to inform their HQ at Charing Cross about John's return and reappears with a car and a patrol at hand that will take John and Sherlock to the Triumvirate.

"I bet they're dying to hear your story," Lubitsch says as he sends them on their way. He is in charge of the base, he explained, and has to stay with his troops.

It feels like a cab ride, with Sherlock and him sitting in the back, a soldier in the front driving an appropriated police car, and a heavily-armed van right behind them. It is nice to catch a glimpse of the London above the tunnels for a change.

"You've been awfully quiet," John says to break the silence, turning towards the man on his left.

"I didn't have anything to say."

"Bollocks, you always have something to say."

"I wasn't sure the observation that Officer Lubitsch has been sleeping with that nurse Emily for the past few weeks would sit well with him in the presence of his subordinates."

A laugh escapes John.

"No, you're right. Anything else I should know?"

"Only, if you care for trivialities like which soldier ate what for breakfast, who keeps feeding stray cats and dogs, who has a hidden crush on one of his fellow officers or who has a severe case of OCD. Other than that, no."

John bursts into laughter and it feels perfect, freeing in a way because he hasn't laughed like that in a long time. "Brilliant, absolutely brilliant," he manages. "But no, not that important."

"I gathered as much." The tone is flat but John can see the corners of Sherlock's lips curling upward.

"Listen, Sherlock," John begins, now that they are alone and he doesn't know how long it might last. "I have been thinking. About what you are going to do when we reach HQ. Do you think you can help us? Devise strategies, come up with a plan? I'm sure you know a lot about Mycroft's movements and his weaknesses. You could help us win this war pretty soon, avoid a lot of bloodshed."

Sherlock's eyes are on him now, boring into his in that particular way that makes John feel like he is being x-rayed.

"And why would I do that?"

"I don't know, because it would save a lot of people?" Sherlock looks unimpressed and with a jolt, John realises he is approaching the topic all wrong. This is Sherlock Holmes he is talking to. "Or consider it a puzzle. A challenge. Finding a way to undermine the Traditionalists, prove to everyone how clever you are. How about that?"

He hit a nerve with that, he can see in in the way Sherlock's spine straightens.

"You can show your brother what you're capable of, too."

Sherlock is smiling now, and John knows he has won.

"That sounds interesting. But I have one condition."

"Anything."

_Anything I can convince Adler, Bhabha, and Thoreau of, that is_, John adds in his mind.

"Mycroft stays alive."

"Oh, of course, he's your brother."

"That has nothing to do with it," Sherlock snaps immediately and from the tone, John knows he's sincere.

"Then why?"

"His death would upset Mummy."

John stops the laugh halfway up his throat and reins in his expression.

"Alright. Deal."

He knows it will be a lot to ask for but at least he can count Bhabha on his side.

xXx

As soon as they reach their new HQ – a hotel at Charing Cross Station since Westminster is too close to enemy lines and the buildings have been bombed – John and Sherlock are led to the council chambers where the Triumvirate awaits.

John enters first after trying to smile encouragingly at Sherlock which he is pretty sure he failed to do. Bhabha is in front of him before he realises it, pulling him into a tight hug.

"John, we were so worried!"

It has been a while since John last saw the omega, two or three weeks before his abduction, and his eyes widen as they take in Homi Bhabha's shape. He looks ragged, still clad in a suit but that and the dark circles under his eyes don't distract from the fact that he has lost a lot of weight recently.

"Jesus, sir, are you okay?"

"Don't worry about me, John, it comes with leading a civil war. You're the one who's been captured."

"We're glad to have you back, Captain," Marc addresses John as he rises from where he has been sitting.

Irene Adler's eyes, meanwhile, land upon Sherlock, who lets his eyes slide casually up and down her body. John would love to hear his thoughts on the woman.

"Lubitsch told us you were bringing him." Her voice is cold; she is not happy.

"He saved my life," is all John says but before Irene can argue, Bhabha gestures to the table.

"Please, let's sit, I'm sure you two must be thirsty."

John's eyes fall on the bottles of water – and is that tea? – so he obeys immediately. Sherlock takes the seat next to him and accepts the water as well as the cup John passes him.

Marc is waiting, even John can see that, so he drinks quickly and turns to the leader, raising his brows expectantly.

"I think we need to hear the full story." Marc crosses his arms in front of his chest and even though John feels like being interrogated with part off the Triumvirate looming over him – save for Bhabha, who took a seat as well – he begins.

He is almost entirely truthful, yet if he doesn't know what it is that Sherlock and he share, and no one else needs to hear about it.

"And you expect us to simply accept Sherlock Holmes as one of us now?"

John meets Marc's eyes with a steady look and rises to his feet.

"Yes, I expect you to welcome him without any hard feelings."

"Are you sure he isn't working for his brother, that he -" Irene starts but there is no way John is going to let her finish that train of thought.

"No, Irene. His own brother basically abducted him when he returned to his flat, his own brother collared him. And I'm not your First Officer because I'm a bad judge of character. If I say he is trustworthy then you will believe me." He is bordering on angry now, hot emotions bubbling to the surface because they are accusing Sherlock of – the mere thought is unimaginable.

Bhabha sighs that teacher-like sigh of his, like they are all just unruly children.

"I take it you have a plan, Captain?"

John lets his smile become more of a smirk when he turns to Mark and Irene.

"Yes. I heard from Lubitsch that we are stronger in numbers than ever. Let's use that to our advantage. Sherlock will help us come up with a strategy to take on the Traditionalists." He can see Irene opening her mouth to object, but at his raised hand she bites her tongue. "Sherlock knows the layout of the Tube tunnels better than any map, he even knows those out of service. He knows how his brother operates and the make-up of what's left of the Empire. With his help, we will win this war with a minimal amount of casualties. His only condition is that we keep Mycroft alive, but I doubt that will be a problem." He eyes the Triumvirate briefly before concluding, "Do we have an understanding?"

"Let that tyrant live?" Marc bellows. "Are you out of your mind? He's behind most of the pro-slavery legislation, he is the Empire!"

"He'll be flattered to hear that," Sherlock quips and everyone turns to him. Sherlock snorts derisively before he, too, stands up.

"Please. Mycroft standing trial and sentenced to a life in prison is a much better example for your followers. Aren't you advocating civil rights and democracy? It always slips my mind," he adds sardonically, pacing the room, and if there weren't so much at stake, John would laugh.

"Besides, only because you like the war so much, Mr Thoreau, doesn't mean you have to draw it out if it needn't be prolonged. As for you, Miss Adler," Sherlock turns on his heels and focuses on Irene, radiating with Alpha hormones, "it's sad to see that one so devoted to the cause keeps reverting to Alpha physiology to intimidate the only omega in your group. I'm glad to see it's not working." He smirks at Bhabha, who – if he hadn't been on board with John's plan to begin with – would probably have reconsidered now.

"As to your questions: No, I'm not working for my brother, he is a power-hungry Alpha with a superiority complex to rival that of yours, Thoreau. I, on the other hand, don't care much for politics, yet I thrive on the prospect of proving to Mycroft that I am, in fact, of superior intellect than he is despite my biological disadvantages. I assure you, lady and gentlemen, I am the world's best consulting detective and without my help, you will lose hundreds of soldiers. Thousands will suffer while Mycroft tries to regain his footing and in the end, you might even lose. Make your choice."

John has to lock his jaw to prevent it from dropping open. He remembers the times Sherlock told him about his cases; he was equally reverent then, yet seeing him talking Thoreau and Adler against the wall of the council chamber is another thing entirely.

John closes the distance and positions himself clearly on Sherlock's side. A second later, Bhabha crosses the space between them and joins as well.

Marc holds his gaze for a long moment. John can see the wheels in his mind turning, assessing the risks of taking Sherlock's deal against refusing it, until he nods in grim determination like a man walking to his execution.

They all turn to Irene, who huffs and throws her hands up in defeat.

"Fine. But I'm keeping a close eye on you!" She points and Sherlock, who indulges her and smiles back.

xXx

If John was hoping for a comfortable bed, he finds himself out of luck.

They immediately start planning, Sherlock surprising everyone except for John when he presents them with whole strategies, altering them when he learns about their equipment.

By the time their plan stands it is late but John is full of adrenaline at the promise of swift action.

"Your room is still intact," Bhabha tells him when they conclude their meeting.

"Thank you. I will find something suitable for Sherlock."

It is only when they are falling into step in the hallway that John glances at Sherlock and they both laugh.

"I suppose you figured it out?" John asks, still chuckling.  
"If you're referring to your distraction while your true intent was to offer me a place in your bed, then yes."

"Good."

John can't help smiling, not even when they reach his room. Sherlock scans it, taking in the documents on the desk, the bed, still made impeccably from before John's abduction, the laptop on the night table.

"I could do with a shower," John says with an inviting look at Sherlock.

There are a few horrible seconds when he is in the bathroom and the door doesn't open again behind him, but then there is Sherlock, coat left behind in the room, his hands already at the buttons of his shirt. John can see how dirty it is in the bright light from the bathroom lamp.

"Are you sure that your wound doesn't need tending?"

John's stomach flips when he detects a hint of genuine concern in Sherlock's voice.

"It's fine. I'm a doctor, don't worry."

He folds his shirt on the stool next to the sink, hands moving on to his belt. They are both naked quickly and John turns the shower on.

After all the time in the sewers and the Tube tunnels, clean water is a relief and John soaps his body with relish.

"Turn around," John murmurs, soap in hand. Sherlock is hesitant but complies, then relaxes under John's hands when he feels the soap coating his back. John has to reach up a little for the shoulders, moves onto Sherlock's arms, then returns to the shoulder blades, soap firm in his right while the left hand traces its movements.

He dares to touch lower, lets it linger briefly on Sherlock's lower back before he moves the soap over the swell of Sherlock's firm buttocks, half an eye on Sherlock's reflexion in the glass of the shower.

As his hand ghosts over pale skin, Sherlock's eyes flutter closed and John knows he is allowed to continue. He puts the soap back and lays both hands on the tense muscles, massaging firmly but gently until Sherlock melts underneath his hands.

John places a kiss on Sherlock's shoulder as he picks up the soap again, bringing his arms around the lean body in front of him, soaping his chest and stomach. The omega leans back into him and John catches a hint of arousal in the air, though with the smell of soap he cannot say whether it is from him or Sherlock.

John feels his blood rush into his groin when he puts the soap back and returns his attention to Sherlock's front, running his hands over his chest, caressing his sides, thumbing his hip bones.

The smell is stronger now, coming from both of them, and John lets the spicy-sweet musk fill his nose as he places another kiss right on the pulse point of Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock hums and his fingertips start caressing John's forearms that are still tracing invisible patterns on Sherlock's chest.

It is lazy, luxurious even, whatever "it" is, John muses and brushes his fingers over Sherlock's hip bones once more.  
Sherlock shifts in front of him, but not out of the embrace. Instead he pushes his lower body back until his buttocks make contact with John's cock and John can't help the moan that escapes him.

Sherlock turns his head, raises a hand to John's head and manoeuvres him until their lips meet with an intensity that has John's pulse racing.

"Take me, John," Sherlock whispers against his lips, eyes half-closed and dark, pupils blown with desire.

John's right hand travels to Sherlock's back, traces the spine until his fingers slip between Sherlock's cheeks and he can feel the slick, slips two fingers inside easily and Sherlock presses back against them, burying them deep inside. John crooks the fingers and explores, his memory guiding him until he feels it, presses against it until Sherlock shouts from the pleasure of it. John withdraws the fingers to add a third when he sees Sherlock bowing his head and his breath hitches at the sight of such a submissive pose.

He has barely entered Sherlock again when the omega whines and pushes back.

"I'm ready, John, come on!"

"So pushy," John chides and grabs Sherlock's cock, head probably wet with precome already but he can't tell under the spray of water. John's fist closes tight around the pulsing flesh, his strokes are quick and Sherlock is panting, head resting on John's shoulder. His left hand returns to tease Sherlock's hole, slipping in, stretching until Sherlock has to brace himself against the glass of the shower because he is shuddering from the sensations.

"I need you to say it," John rasps in his ear, pressing his chest against Sherlock's back, rubbing his cock against Sherlock's arse, which rips a guttural groan from the man.

"Damn it, John," he pants, but it is not what John wants to hear so he merely pushes forward between Sherlock's thighs until he is sure the omega can feel the head of his cock against his balls.

Sherlock's moan sounds almost annoyed, yet his voice is laced with need when he finally speaks.

"Please, John."

"Good," he answers and tongues Sherlock's pulse point again while one of his hands part his cheeks and he pushes inside with a quick thrust.

He grips Sherlock's hips to steady himself as he sets a strong rhythm, adjusts the angle and yes, that's it, Sherlock is moaning now, a constant stream of noises John soaks up just like the smell that fills the room now. The tight heat around his cock is pure bliss, water running down their bodies, and he can't even feel the wound in his side anymore, only the jolts of pleasure that travel through his body and make him shiver.

He reaches around with one hand and strokes Sherlock's erection, almost painfully hard in his grip. Three, four, five movements of his hand and he can feel Sherlock tense for a moment before he arches his back and spills, John's name on his lips.

Hearing Sherlock shout his name in such pleasure is his undoing; he slams in and can feel his knot swelling. Sherlock whimpers at the stretch but he rocks back against John and it is almost too good, too much pleasure and he is coming hot inside Sherlock and just manages to pull out before he would have locked them together in this position.

Sherlock is the one who turns off the water and they dry each other off. John lends Sherlock clothes to sleep in; they are too big but too short at the same time, yet seeing Sherlock in his worn military pyjamas appeals to the Alpha in him enough to make his knot throb at the sight.

They curl into each other automatically, it is so natural how Sherlock fits into his side, head on his chest and an arm wrapped across his torso.

They lie there for a moment, basking in each other's presence.

"John?"

He hums and opens his eyes to find Sherlock looking up at him, eyes clear and open in a way John has never seen them before. Sherlock almost looks vulnerable like this, he muses.

"I may have manipulated the plan a little." John narrows his eyes but nothing in Sherlock's demeanour speaks of ill intentions. "In that we will start the offensive in a week's time and not sooner. I believe I'm going into heat shortly."

"Oh." There is a lump in his throat all of a sudden, a slight panic that this is Sherlock telling him that he doesn't want to spend the cycle with John but he pushes the feeling down. "Do you, I mean, if you want… Do you want me to be there for you?" he finally manages and meets the blue eyes.

"Make a deduction," Sherlock says, an almost evil smirk playing around his lips.

John chuckles nervously. "Well, you came for me during the night while I was a prisoner. You," his voice falters a little and he wills it to sound firm and secure with moderate success, "you kissed me. You broke me out." Another nervous chuckle. "You cuddled with me. And now… My deduction is that you want me to help you through your next heat. Am I correct?" he finishes, daring a glance at the detective.

"I want you for a lot more than that, John," Sherlock breathes out, warm air ghosting over John's chest. "But yes, your deduction is accurate."

The smile forms with sudden intensity and Sherlock returns it. It is the first time that Sherlock has really smiled, freely and with all his face and body and it amazes John more than anything else.

He meets Sherlock's lips in a kiss. It is chaste in contrast to what they have done that night, but it feels more intimate than anything John has ever experienced.

"I want you for a lot more, too, Sherlock," John murmurs.

He can still feel the smile on Sherlock's lips against his chest when he falls asleep.

xXx

**End Notes:** Got a bit fluffy there, in the end... couldn't help it!

It really makes me sad that I only have the epilogue left, I would have loved to post a few more chapters but the story is almost told, I'm afraid... I hope you enjoyed the resolution!

PS: Yes, there is a sequel :) And 8 chapters of it have already been written; so I will just continue posting them in this story for easier access.


	6. Epilogue

**Chapter 6 – Epilogue**

_**Several weeks later**_

"What about him?"

"Comfortable as a Beta, almost unhealthy addiction to romance novels, two small dogs, will propose to his girlfriend within the next few weeks."

"And the woman in the red dress?"

"Clearly overcompensating. Omega, been a slave until recently, her hands keep darting to her neck, she's not used to the world as it is yet, though she tries to fool everyone present into thinking she has adjusted well."

"And that one?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Someone's PA, diligent, hard-working, fears now that Omegas are equal, they will become his competition." He sighs in exasperation and shoves his hands into the pockets of his tuxedo. "These people here are all boring, John, this whole event is tedious – when can we leave?"

"We've only been here for an hour, we can't leave already. Sherlock, this is important."

The Omega looks as though John has grown a new head and John brings up a hand to massage the bridge of his nose, thinking of a way to make Sherlock understand the significance of this night.

"It's merely a celebration," Sherlock states, disdain audible in every syllable.

"It's not just a celebration, Sherlock, this is the celebration! We have a new government, even an Omega Prime Minister, that's huge, even you have to see that!"

Sherlock huffs. "I concede that this evening is of historical significance, yet I fail to understand why it's vital to drag me to this party with you."

John can only shake his head. "People expect us to be here, Sherlock, after what you did to help win the civil war. Can't you just accept that everybody is happy that you're attending and quit nagging?"

Sherlock glares at him some more, but John can see that he is finally won in the way Sherlock's body shifts slightly towards him.

"Fine. But the promised compensation better be worth it."

John smirks suggestively as he adjusts the collar of his uniform. "Oh, don't you doubt me…" His thoughts wander back to some equipment he recently purchased but before his fantasy is allowed to run away with him, he sees the familiar figure of Homi Bhabha approaching.

The leader has regained a bit of the weight he lost during the war while he was campaigning for the voters' favour these past weeks and his torso is straining against the fabric of his three-piece suit like it did when John met him for the first time.

"John, how nice that you came! You even brought Mr Holmes."

John moves to shake Bhabha's offered hand. "I had to come, it's not every day I can congratulate you on becoming Prime Minister."

"The people have spoken, I am pleased to say so. All the people," he adds, giving Sherlock what seems to be a solitary nod that the man fails to acknowledge.

"So, how are things?" John asks instead before Sherlock has the chance to say anything inappropriate.

Bhabha sighs, though it sounds mostly content. "Fairly well, I have to say. Most colonies have already declared independence, yet some want to remain under our sovereignty. The Americas have split completely, and it seems that separating themselves from us and his predecessor Bush is Obama's greatest goal. But our country is up and running again, as the young would say," Bhabha smiles.

"That's great to hear," John answers emphatically.

"We couldn't have done it without you, John, don't forget that," Bhabha insists, then continues, looking at Sherlock, "nor without you, Mr Holmes. That was quite the brilliant scheme you came up with."

"I certainly like to think so," Sherlock replies and John resists the urge to jab him in the ribs with his elbow.

"He means thank you," John explains, yet Bhabha doesn't seem to be upset.

"Have you visited your brother in prison?"

"Once. To gloat." Sherlock's voice is cold but John remembers that day, how emotionally draining the experience was for Sherlock even though he never let it on.

_I know him better than he does himself sometimes_, John muses with a rush of affection.

Meanwhile, Bhabha is laughing but he doesn't get a chance to reply as some other politician whisks him away, leaving Sherlock and John alone again.

John can't help but smile at the sight of the crowd: Alphas, Betas, Omegas, all there as equals, celebrating the dawn of a new era.

A few times during the execution of Sherlock's plan, John almost believed they would fail. It had looked bleak. But then, with several ploys executed at once, they destroyed everyone and everything that was holding up the old Empire. Except Mycroft Holmes of course, who stood trial and would now rot in prison.

John would have loved to see him hang, would have gladly shot the bastard himself but he couldn't do that to Sherlock.

Sherlock.

The Omega's piercing blue eyes are lazily scanning the people closest to them, taking in every little detail. His body is relaxed under the fabric of his tuxedo, his stance communicates boredom to everyone willing to listen.

John smiles as he remembers the day Thoreau, Bhabha, Adler, and the leader of the students named the Empire a thing of the past, declaring a democracy in which every citizen would have the same rights, no matter their status. Both John and Sherlock were exhausted, worn from days of fighting and not knowing whether they would be successful.

It still puzzles John how he ended up at 221B Baker Street, in Sherlock's flat, in Sherlock's bed as if it were the most obvious thing in the world and perhaps in Sherlock's eyes, it was.

John still had work to do, organising a new nation in terms of security, freeing the last slaves, helping rebuild London and from time to time help Sherlock with a case he received – stole might be the more accurate verb to use, John is sure – from Lestrade.

What John will do now that the nation has been reorganised is beyond him, though. He hasn't had much time to think about it yet.

A while later both John and Sherlock find themselves alone on the balcony, away from the crowd and the cheering and the music, and John feels safe to wrap an arm around Sherlock's waist. The Omega leans into the touch, closing the distance between them, and buries his face in the crook of John's neck.

John inhales deeply, the spicy-sweet scent so familiar by now because it is part of his scent, too, and every time he smells it, his heart jumps and the Alpha in him purrs contentedly.

"John," Sherlock begins, drawing back. His eyes focus on John's. "Do you like events like this?"

He opens his mouth but Sherlock answers for him, of course deducing his thoughts before they have even formed in his head.

"No, of course you don't, you've been on edge for the past hour. Obvious, of course, you're a soldier, have been fighting for the past years and now the thrill is over and you're left with cocktail parties and politics. Tedious."

John narrows his eyes. "What are you implying?"

Sherlock sighs and steps back, separating them, and John immediately misses the heat of his body against his own.

"What will you do now that your mission is complete and the Reformists have won?" Sherlock's face is blank again, like a mask, and John hates it. He has become very capable of reading Sherlock in the past few weeks, but whenever he schools his expression into this stoic mask, John is grasping at straws.

"I'm not sure," he answers after a long silence. "I'll probably await new orders."

"No. My idea is better." Sherlock smirks. "Obviously."

"What idea?" John considers Sherlock, looking for any kind of clue that can tell him what the other man is up to.

Sherlock steps closer again but doesn't reach out to touch him. His gaze is lowered and he seems to be considering how to go on. When he looks up, his expression is still stoic but it doesn't reach his eyes.

"We are a good team, John." Sherlock's voice is strong, confidently so, but his eyes betray that he is afraid that John might decline whatever suggestion is to come.

"Yes."

"You have been enjoying helping me solve cases, I observed."

John nods, eyes locked with Sherlock's, and finally, the other shoe drops.

"What," he says, "you want a sidekick?" There is a smile on his face and John feels elated all of a sudden.

Sherlock's eyes flicker to the ground, then up again, his expression openly vulnerable for a brief second before he schools it once more.

"If you'll have me."

John takes a deep breath, wondering if he should think this decision through more thoroughly but it feels so right, so brilliantly right like everything with Sherlock does, so he decides to throw caution in the wind.

"I'll always have you, as long as you want me."

He is rewarded with one of Sherlock's rare, genuine smiles that light up his entire body and he can't help but close the space between them and press his lips to Sherlock's.

It is passionate and not at all chaste but John doesn't care if anyone sees them, because this is it, this is one of the moments in his life that change its course forever, right up there with joining the Reformists and kissing Sherlock for the first time, only better – because right now, it feels like this might be forever.

END OF PART I

xXx

**End Notes: **This is NOT THE END. My muse has teamed up with the kind readers on AO3 and I'm currently working on part II. Eight chapters have been written, so I will continue publishing.


	7. Reconstruction 1 - Missing Scenes

**RECONSTRUCTION**

Sequel to "Civil Disobedience"

After a successful revolution, the Empire is in pieces and New Britain has to reinvent itself. In the middle of it are Alpha John Watson, former First Officer of the Reformists, and Omega Sherlock Holmes.

xXx

**Chapter 1: Missing scenes**

**Summary: **Missing scenes between chapter 5 of part I and the epilogue. Information on the timeline: It took two weeks to execute the Reformists' plan that led to The Fall of the Empire (aka "the Fall"). The provisional government ruled for three months until the election of Bhabha as Prime Minister (which brings us to the Epilogue of part I).

**Author's Notes:** I am so sorry for the delay! Real life got crazy – I scored a big job but totally forgot to update because of it. My humble apologies!

This is part II :) I'm including it in the original fic because ffn doesn't let you link works unless that has changed.

Thanks so much to Iriya, my wonderful beta and brit-picking genius!

Matrix = uterus in male Omegas.  
Which brings us to: Why is no one pregnant with all the knotting going on? Originally, I wanted to completely ignore that potential problem because Mpreg is one of my biggest squicks. But after a few inquiries I had to face the fact that, if I wanted to keep this a "real" Omegaverse, I would have to deal with the issue, or lack of an issue, since Sherlock seems to not have got pregnant between chapter 5 and 6. The whole mystery will be solved by the end of chapter 1!

xXx

Mycroft is sitting in one of the armchairs in 221B Baker Street, right hand playing absent-mindedly with his umbrella.

CCTV detected Sherlock twenty minutes ago. He should be here any minute.

Mycroft tries to ignore the warm feeling that spread in his chest when he heard Sherlock is alive, that he somehow survived the attack on the Reformist HQ. Compassion will not help him taking his brother into custody, nor help him put the collar around Sherlock's neck.

The collar is resting on the table in front of him. Sherlock will see it immediately and know what is to come. Mycroft would have preferred putting Sherlock back on Metamoxin, but ever since someone leaked his brother's omega status, that has become impossible. Sherlock needs to be collared, become a slave.

Anthea enters swiftly. Her nod tells him his brother is almost here, so he grips the umbrella tighter, focussing his eyes on the door while Anthea hides from view.

A few minutes pass in silence. Then, the door handle turns.

Sherlock freezes when he sees Mycroft in the chair but a split of a second later, he turns on his heels only to find his way blocked by Anthea who has come out of her spot in a corner.

"I have ten SAS people in the building. Every possible exit is guarded. You can't escape."

Mycroft watches Sherlock's shoulders slump in resignation. His brothers turns slowly, expression blank. His eyes fall onto the collar.

"So you finally make me your slave?"

Mycroft huffs. "We don't have a choice here, Sherlock."

When his brother remains still, Mycroft rises from the chair, takes the collar and approaches him, careful to keep his face as blank as possible as he closes the leather around his brother's neck.

Sherlock doesn't look up to meet his eyes. Mycroft sees his hand twitch as if it wanted to reach up, touch the fabric. It is the softest leather money can buy.

"Have a seat, Sherlock. Tell me about your time with the Reformists."

Sherlock doesn't answer. Stifling a sigh, Mycroft's eyes dart to Anthea who pushes his brother to the second chair while Mycroft resumes his seat.

Begrudgingly, his brother sits down and tries his best to lounge in the chair like he usually does, but his body language betrays his unease.

"What did they do to you?"

Sherlock merely holds his gaze for thirty seconds, then probably realises that he is not going anywhere until he answers.

"They kept me in a cell. I was fed and had access to a bathroom."

"How did you spend the heat?"

"Alone." Sherlock shudders at the memory. Mycroft can only imagine how it must have been like for his brother, losing control over his body like that, too stubborn to accept help.

"How did you get out?"

"I was on my way to the bathroom when the attack happened and used the surprise to overpower the guards. I found a way into the Tube tunnels while everyone was busy defending the HQ."

For the moment, Mycroft acts as though he believes every word. He knows his brother better than to take his words at face value. Yet this mystery needs to be solved another time, he decides with a look at his watch.

"Let me make this quick. You are now a slave, Sherlock, my personal slave. No one holds power over you but me." The way Sherlock's eyes narrow and widen shows he understands the implications: No one can touch Sherlock. "You will still work on cases for me, but under close supervision. We will see to what other uses we can put you. The collar stays on. It has a trace; don't try to run off, we'll always know where you are. There are only two keys of which I have one. Even if opened with a key, Sherlock, it will trigger a warning. So don't think you can simply escape. Anthea will teach you proper behaviour later."

There is no verbal response but Sherlock's eyes have gone icy.

Mycroft can live with his brother resenting him for the rest of his life, as long as Mycroft owns the collar that inspires the hatred.

Anthea guides Sherlock from the room down to where the car is waiting. Flanked by guards, Mycroft exits 221B Baker Street, looking around.

He is in enemy territory. But that won't stop him. If everything goes according to plan, there will soon be no more enemy territory, only his London.

xXx

Mycroft doesn't like torture, not per se. It has proven to be a useful tool, however. But Captain John Watson seems to be immune to pain of any kind and refuses to give away any information.

Mycroft sighs heavily in the solitude of his room when he comes to a decision. Execution used to be the last option. Now it is the only option left.

xXx

"Sir." Anthea looks tense, which has only happened once before. Something has gone wrong.

"What?"

She hesitates. Anthea doesn't hesitate. "Captain John Watson isn't in his cell."

Mycroft narrows his eyes.

"He is nowhere to be found. It seems he escaped."

Mycroft analyses what he observed the past days, remembers seemingly insignificant details like Sherlock's gaze lingering a second too long on John Watson, and the puzzle solves itself in one horrible rush.

"And where is my brother?"

Anthea swallows. "His collar was found in front of a door that leads into the Tube tunnels. A search party is already in pursuit."

Mycroft is not a violent person, never was. But all of a sudden, he has the inexplicable urge to hit something.

Without Watson to execute, the Reformist's spirit will remain unbroken. What will happen if Watson finds his way back to them, Mycroft doesn't want to imagine.

xXx

The Empire falls in one night. This one night changes the lives of every Alpha, Beta and Omega, both in Britain and in the colonies.

The only consolation Mycroft has is that the Reformists have no time to celebrate: Reconstruction has already begun.

xXx

"Mr Holmes, you have a visitor."

Mycroft's eyes snap up from the book he is reading to the guard peering in through the window in the door. "And who might that be?"

He knows, of course. There is only one person he expects to drop by Belmarsh maximum security prison to see Mycroft Holmes in unflattering plain prison attire.

"Your brother."

With a sigh, Mycroft rises and extends his hand through the second hole in the door for the guard to cuff him, then follows the long way to the visitation area.

Sherlock took his time, he muses. He doubts his brother was busy with anything; Sherlock proved time and time again that he has no interest in politics and therefore Mycroft doubts he was involved in any of the reconstructive measures the Reformists have undertaken since his capture.

Democracy. Equal rights. Manumission for all Omegas. New trials for enslaved Betas. Independence for every colony that claims it. Appointing a provisional government.

Those rebels have been diligent already, though their aspirations are even more colourful, it seems if they are indeed aiming for a social upheaval that leaves everyone equal.

The guard points him to a chair in front of a glass wall that separates him from the man already seated on the other side. Mycroft is cuffed to the chair, trying to endure the procedure with as much dignity as he can muster, taking in his brother's stoic expression.

Sherlock looks good, he hates to admit. Confident, content even. Mycroft bets that if he could smell his brother now, he would not only catch his scent but that of Captain John Watson as well.

Captain John Watson. The flaw in Mycroft's plan.

"Hello, Mycroft."

"Sherlock."

"How's prison treating you? You seem to be finally losing some of that weight."

"Yes, they have a lovely wellness program here. Didn't you read the brochures?" Mycroft counters, trying to conceal his irritation.

His brother's mask gives way to a smirk and Mycroft knows he isn't fooling the consulting detective.

Silence falls. Mycroft's thoughts wander back to the moment he was taken captive. He was so sure that he would escape successfully, was wearing a rather smug expression if he was completely honest, when suddenly, he and his entourage were surrounded by more than forty reformists, led by no other than Watson.

It clicked, right then; and Mycroft wanted to kick himself for failing to acknowledge the signs. For counting on his brother's ability to alienate every single person he ever encountered, given enough time.

Mycroft could smell the fury radiating off Captain Watson, could sense how tight the grip on his Sig was, how much he longed to pull the trigger.

"Thoreau said you're the reason I'm still alive." Spat it, even, Mycroft remembers. Marc Thoreau's right hand was clenched in a tight fist as though the man was trying to keep it from reaching for a weapon.

Sherlock looks startled for a moment that Mycroft is the one who breaks the silence first. "Yes. I couldn't do that to Mummy."

"You've done enough." It is harsh, but true. Giving birth to an Omega was something his mother never forgave herself for, even though on the outside, she always was supportive when it came to Sherlock. Needless to say, Sherlock saw right through her from an early age on.

"I can't change my biology."

"The thing is – you could, and you did. You could have refused the pills at any moment." His brother is silent, clearly thinking about New Britain and the Equal Rights Legislation, and Mycroft can but laugh. "Do you honestly think anything will change, Sherlock? The system, the hierarchy – it's in our minds, it's under our skin. It's taken residence there decades ago. People will always look down on you for what you are."

"What people think of me doesn't bother me." Sherlock opens his mouth again but Mycroft cuts him off.

"No, the only one whose opinion matters is Captain John Watson." Sherlock's mouth snaps shut, which is all Mycroft needs. "So I'm correct. I have to say your connection with him surprises me. No one ever gets close to you, you never let them. You never had friends."

"Now I have one."

"What makes him different, Sherlock?" Yes, Watson is loyal and brave and – even though he will never say it out loud – one bloody strong Alpha. Yet, he seems like nothing special. Knowing Sherlock, however, there has to be something to make him unique.

He can see the muscles in his brother's jaw working as if he is considering his answer very carefully. Mycroft is even further intrigued. How deep is Sherlock's connection to the Alpha?

"It's not your concern, Mycroft. You're in jail."

"Not for long."

This earns him an amused eyebrow-raise. "Not even I see how you could slither your way out of this."

Mycroft merely smiles. He is working on it. Without much success so far, though his brother doesn't need to know that.

After they spent a few minutes in silence again, Mycroft leans forward, face serious.

"There are a little over 60 million people living Britain alone. That means that with your help, the Reformists freed 24 million Omegas. Omegas who are used to nothing but living as illiterate slaves. Now they are free. But what will they do with their freedom, Sherlock? What will become of the Empire? Do you have any idea what you have done?"

Sherlock's eyes have widened, yet it is the only reaction Mycroft receives before his brother stands up and leaves with a flourish of his coat.

xXx

London feels different when John walks the few blocks from 221B Baker Street to the nearest shop.

True, he only ever experienced it as a citizen for a few days after Afghanistan before he joined the Reformists and had to go underground, but still. Change is in the air.

It is not the wired kind of elation he experienced during the night of The Fall, when Michael Collins, leader of the students, proclaimed a New Britain with equal rights for all. New flavours have been added to the atmosphere, not all positive.

During his missions, John sees enough to fill in the blanks. Wide-eyed omegas, muttering "We're free" with no idea what it will entail. Former slaves at the free clinic whose backs consist entirely of scar tissue from too many whippings. Housing shortage. The provisional government organising emergency camps, converting buildings into housing complexes for the newly freed citizens. Alphas and Betas clinging to the old order of things, hiding their Omegas away in their cellar where neither light nor food reaches them for days until the patrols have passed.

John shakes himself out of his reverie when he enters the shop, checks his list and grabs a trolley, taking his time.

Lacking a current case, Sherlock has busied himself with an experiment that apparently allows no interruptions.

He is considering the tea selection when he notices the supermarket employee a few feet to his right has stopped restocking the shelves. John twists his head and meets the woman's – the girl's – eyes, sees her inhale deeply.

He concentrates hard and finds there is indeed something familiar about her scent.

"Pardon, sir," she says, head slightly bowed – an old reflex. She used to be a slave, John muses. "Are you Captain John Watson?" He nods. "Do you remember me?"

John considers her, the long blond hair and the deep, green eyes. Her name tag reads Vinette Robinson, which rings a bell. "Did I free you once?"

She nods. It's a short and jerky movement and her hands fidget with nervous energy.

"In Sussex, sir. You freed five Omegas and one Beta. You told us that you heard that our owners were torturing us."

Suddenly, John remembers. It was on his last mission before the Triumvirate sent him to kidnap Sherlock. He glances at the girl's neck, pleased to find it unbruised.

"I lost sight of you after we took you to HQ. How have you been?"

"Good, sir. I was moved to a secure location after the attack, along with many of the others."

John smiles at her. "You got a job now, congratulations." It is hard for Omegas to find work, especially since most of them can hardly read. John hopes the situation will improve once they have a newly elected government.

"Yes! I had a lot of luck. I learned to read from the Beta who was with us. And I'm young, so they can teach me and I didn't have any permanent wounds…" She trails of, her mind clearly drifting off to friends who weren't so lucky. Before John can think of something to say to ease her discomfort, she catches herself again. "It's minimum wage but the manager said that if I'm good, I will get a raise soon."

"That's brilliant," John says, meaning it. The provisional government fixed a minimum employers had to pay Omegas. It's not nearly enough but without rent to pay, life is manageable. "Did you get a room in the government facilities?"

She nods. "With a few roommates, but we've become friends. It's not much, but at least it's my own. If this is working out and I get a raise, a few of us will look into apartments. You know, with bathrooms of our own." She blushes a bit at that, probably afraid she said too much, but John knows how meagre the conditions are in the buildings.

"Did you get help? You know, after the Fall."

"Yes, I… I did."

John narrows his eyes. "But?"

Vinette glances around, uncertain. "Well, sir, three hours with a state appointed psychiatrist can't really do much about years of… being an Omega."

John can guess the rest. Three hours is what the provisional government included in their emergency plans, and true, John is glad that the former slaves at least got some help, but most of them need long term care.

Many patients at the clinic still flinch when John as much as moves too fast.

Psychiatric help, however, is expensive.

"I can look into that," John offers, feeling the need to take action. He knows Bhabha, still is in contact with him. He actually is in a position to help. "I can't promise that anything will change right away, but I'll do my best."

Vinette's eyes light up and she takes a step closer. "You've already done so much for us, sir. Thank you."

"Don't mention it." He looks back at the aisle, remembering that he was thinking about tea before. "You could do something for me, though," he adds with a smirk.

"Sir?" Vinette looks nervous again.

"What kind of tea would you recommend?"

When she catches up, she bursts into giggles and John joins in with a laugh of his own.

xXx

Back at 221B Baker Street, John unloads the grocery bags onto the living room table, since Sherlock is without doubt still blocking the one in the kitchen.

"Did you bring the vinegar?" is Sherlock's shouted greeting from around the corner.

"Yes, I did!"

A little rummaging later unveils the bottle and John makes his way into the kitchen. Every available surface is covered in utensils, phials, petri dishes… John can even make out a bunsen burner in the mess.

Sherlock doesn't glance up when he enters and places the vinegar near his elbow, but remains focussed on whatever he is watching on the microscope. Sherlock tried to explain it to him yesterday what exactly he is researching, but John couldn't remember the details to save his life.

Especially when Sherlock smells like that, content and focussed and strong, the spicy-sweet scent filling up the room despite the chemicals.

John rounds the table until he is standing directly behind Sherlock and leans forward, nuzzling Sherlock's neck. He freezes, hands still on the microscope.

"John, not now."

John licks Sherlock's pulse point, knowing fully well what kind of effect it has on the Omega. Sherlock shudders.

"John, stop –" The end of the sentence gives way to a gasp as John sucks down, hard, pressing his chest against Sherlock's shoulders and bringing his hands up to hold onto Sherlock's arms.

Another full-body shudder and John bites down, eliciting a moan but suddenly, Sherlock tenses, catching himself.

"John."

Reluctantly, he pulls away, kissing Sherlock's neck one last time before he makes to put away the groceries as well as possible with the kitchen in such disarray.

It is a well-rehearsed game by now: John initiates and either Sherlock allows him to whisk the detective away from whatever research he is doing or Sherlock stands his ground, no matter what his or John's bodies say.

When the eggs are finally in the fridge – far enough away from whatever Sherlock stores in the closed tupperware container – John retreats to the living room. He still has to write up their last case, "The Solidary Cyclist".

Two months have passed since the Fall and Sherlock has borrowed John's help – well, ordered John or simply told him to come along is more like it – for whatever cases Lestrade is sending his way. Apparently criminals don't care if the Reconstruction Era is upon them and take a break for a few weeks.

John can't help often; most of the time he is on missions, sometimes he volunteers in the Free Clinic, but he likes spending time with Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.

With a deep breath, John powers up his laptop and for a moment revels in the fact that in the apartment, their scents have mixed, become one. Either is still distinguishable, yet their continued presence has added another layer above their individual ones.

John refuses to think about the meaning of mixed scents. He refuses to think about a lot of things when it comes to Sherlock and him, because thinking would require labelling and that is something Sherlock hasn't shown any interest in so far. Neither has John. But then, he is not thinking about it.

It works, whatever it is. It is an easy balance and John has no idea how they achieved it.

xXx

As former First Officer of the Reformists, it is not too difficult to get into contact with Homi Bhabha, who is – along with Adler, Thoreau and Michel Collins – leading the provisional government.

John follows the secretary through the halls of Westminster Abbey, contemplating what he is going to say to Bhabha about his conversation with Vinette. Instructing him to wait for Bhabha, the Beta leads him to large, wooden doors which open to a spacious office.

John's eyes sweep the room out of reflex, noting doors leading to further rooms, large curtained windows, and a map. With a smile he recognises it as the same map that used to decorate the conference room at HQ.

"I grew rather fond of that map, I have to admit," Bhabha's familiar voice comes from behind John.

If possible, Homi Bhabha looks even more exhausted than he did during the final phase of the civil war. There are dark circles under the Omega's eyes and his trousers sit way too loose around his waist.

"Sir."

Shaking his hand, Bhabha asks, "To what do I owe your visit?"

"No time for pleasantries?" John raises an eyebrow, which seems to startle Bhabha a little.

"I'm so sorry, Captain. Everything has been so rushed these past weeks, my manners must have faded."

"Frankly, you do look overworked. Are you alright, Bhabha?"

"Operating on too little rest and too much adrenaline, but there's nothing I can change about my predicament. There's a country to rebuild."

Bhabha motions to the desk so John follows the Omega's lead and takes a seat across the table from him.

"How is it going?"

Bhabha's sigh is so heavy that it tells John more than any words could ever do. He has been around the man long enough to read between the lines, and what he finds there is something far from a perfect world.

"Apart from the traditionalists still scattered across New Britain and too many Omegas to find shelter for, a too high illiteracy rate, a colossal lack of funds, a public that has no idea how to treat an Omega who is now one's equal and an unstable economy? We're making progress. You're playing your part well, John."

"Thank you, sir. But all I do is bring freedom to those who are still kept from it."

"No, John," Bhabha says, shaking his head softly, "you're doing a lot more than that. You're a war hero. A beacon of hope! An Alpha who risks his life for Omegas and Betas alike and volunteers in one of the free clinics on top of that. Don't underestimate yourself."

John is acutely aware of the colour rising in his cheeks.

"But my secretary told me you had an issue to discuss?"

"Yes," John starts, explaining about how he ran into Vinette and how they got talking. "I'm serious, Bhabha, I've seen first-hand how traumatised a lot of Omegas still are. Three hours is not enough. You need to get them help, or soon you will have 24 million people with severe forms of PTSD or other illnesses."

Bhabha considers him for a long moment, then nods, though more in resignation it seems than in agreement.

"You're right, John, of course you're right. But what am I supposed to do? Practicing psychiatrist haven't exactly been happy about having to provide their services free of charge in the first place. Three sessions was already stretching their patience. How do you think they're going to react to more hours of free work?"

"But it's their job as doctors to help those in need! Especially in a time after a crisis!"

"It's very noble that you hold that opinion but I'm afraid not many colleagues share it. I'd love nothing more than to pass a law that mandates psychiatrist to provide their help to Omegas and Betas in need. I'm just not sure I can convince the rest."

"Could you at least try? Because what I see in the Free Clinic alone... Bhabha, they need help."

This time, Bhabha's nod is more resolute. "I will do my best."

John rises from his chair, extending a hand. "Thank you."

Bhabha moves as well, leading him to the door. He pauses with a hand on the knob. "Oh, before I forget: After the election in five weeks, we are having a celebration, no matter who wins. I'd very much like you to come."

A party. John can't help but smile at the thought. "Of course I'll come."

"And see that you bring Mr Holmes as well?"

"I'll drag him there if I have to. Which I probably will," he chuckles, Bhabha joining in soon after.

xXx

John accepts the coffee from Greg with a grateful smile.

"Don't thank me till you tried it," the DI warns, but when John takes a sip, it tastes normal.

"This is good coffee, why shouldn't it taste good?"

"Donovan prepared it, I'm still not entirely sure if I would put poisoning you to get back at Sherlock past her."

John chuckles. "She deserves being called out if she believes she can keep up her affair with Anderson without Sherlock knowing about it."

Lestrade huffs a laugh and glances towards the door to the room Sherlock ushered them out of.

"Everybody out, I need to think!" he bellowed and John knew better than to argue, as did Lestrade; only Donovan and Anderson looked a bit cross.

In moments like this John is still a bit dazzled that an Omega can simply order around a group of Alphas and Betas in this new world. And he is sure that Donovan and Anderson would like the situation, if it weren't Sherlock Holmes and his special personality they had to deal with.

"By the way, John, nice going with the Solidary Cyclist, great title for that case."

"Thank you," John replies automatically, then narrows his eyes. "You read my blog?"

Greg laughs heartedly. "Of course. The whole Met reads it, I guess."

He shrugs and tries to mentally scan his articles for any sort of derogatory comments about the police.

"Stop worrying, John, we're all fans. Maybe not of your other half, but of you and the blog."

He raises his eyebrows at that. "My other half?"

Lestrade chooses not to answer but smirks instead.

Just when John wants to object, because he and Sherlock still haven't explicitly talked about whatever it is they share every time Sherlock goes into heat and the weeks in between, or when John cooks and makes Sherlock eat because he would starve otherwise, or when they cuddle before falling asleep.

Of course that is when Sherlock calls, "John!" and he is halfway down the hallway to the door before he realises that he might have just proven Greg's point.

John turns to find the DI grinning.

"You are so whipped, Captain."

And John probably is, he muses, warmth spreading within his chest as he prepares to be ordered around by the best consulting detective New Britain has ever seen. He finds he doesn't mind in the slightest.

The Omega's body is where they left it upon giving Sherlock the room to himself: On the shabby carpet floor, covered in blood from a wound to the lower abdomen, gagged by what appears to be a scarf. The man's shirt has been ripped, exposing the edges of the wound.

"Thoughts?" Sherlock asks from his position at the small window a few feet away.

John leans over the body, closer inspection proving his theory. "The man was still alive when they cut him open. He'd have died within a few minutes, given the depth and length of the incision."

His eyes travel further up, spot a bruise on the victim's temple. "He was unconscious when the murderer made the cut. Also explains why there are no defensive wounds and why the victim was gagged. The pain woke him, but the gag silenced his screams."

Nodding, Sherlock takes a step in his direction. "Look closer."

Intrigued, John leans in, inspecting the cut – then freezes. "The matrix is missing." A glance at Sherlock shows John that the detective's eyes are scanning every inch of the room, intrigued. "Why is the matrix missing?"

"I have four – no, five, theories."

"Can you prove any of them?"

"Not yet."

A noise alerts them to the door opening, revealing an apologetic looking Greg and a smug Anderson, which means their time is up.

"Anything?" The DI asks Sherlock.

"Five possible solutions. The victim's missing matrix is the biggest clue. Either someone wanted the organ to sell it, matrixes earn quite a sum on the local black market" – why Sherlock would know that, or how, is beyond John – "or we're dealing with a hate crime or someone who wants to make it seem as such, but instead it was a fellow Omega who held a grudge against the victim, or just a crime committed in the heat of passion. Or–"

"How many more 'or's are there?" To John, Greg looks a bit overwhelmed.

"Just one more, obvious."

"Well?" The DI prompts and Sherlock rolls his eyes, probably at their minuscule intellect.

"Or whoever collected the organ needs it for some kind of ritual."

Anderson snorts. "What kind of ritual would I need a matrix for?"

"Your mind, Anderson, must be a relaxing place." Before the man has a chance to reply, Sherlock explains, "There are several cults, spiritual communities or religions that worship a Mother goddess, even here in London. Some ancient rituals required the sacrifice of humans or human organs, and the fact that the murderer removed the matrix, while the victim was still conscious, makes my last theory most likely. Especially since the Omega was approaching his heat cycle, which corresponds with the requirements of some fertility rituals. If this man was murdered because someone wanted to sacrifice matrixes to a goddess, there will be more bodies. I would imagine even magic can only trap the matrix's energy for so long," he adds, voice dripping with sarcasm and already on his way out the door.

When he passes a revolted looking Anderson, Sherlock's blue eyes survey him briefly before he smirks.

"She won't agree to the date."

Following Sherlock out of the door and into the hallway, John shoots the man an apologetic look but knows better than to hope that Anderson will convince Donovan to go on a date with him. Sherlock's been right on every account when it comes to their affair – much to both of the Beta's chagrin. And their colleagues' amusement.

xXx

As soon as they have left the housing facility, Sherlock makes a beeline for a homeless woman at a corner, passing her a twenty pound note that holds a small slip of paper John has seen Sherlock write on the way outside.

The homeless network never ceases to amaze John.

Only thirty minutes after getting back to Baker Street, though, where Sherlock is playing his fiddle to think and John researches Mother goddess and fertility rites, they receive a call from Greg.

There are two more bodies.

xXx

That night, Sherlock is pacing the living room with John watching him from the sofa, laptop balancing on his knees.

The homeless network knew of three religious cults that follow the Mother goddess in one way or another; yet none has ever been known for their violence. "That's the point," Sherlock sneered, "they're all one with nature and at peace with themselves."

Their killer must be an Omega, since only Omegas are allowed into the housing facilities, a rule intended to protect the inhabitants from Alphas or Betas discontent with the new status quo. Besides, the security footage of both houses proves there was no unauthorised entry.

And other than the cloth used to gag the third victim, which belonged to the killer and not the murdered Omegas like the scarf and neckerchief, they have no further clues. Or rather, John has no further clues, Sherlock keeps muttering about the circles the victims travelled in and how they are nowhere near spiritual groups.

"But the killer must have known them, or he couldn't have known where they lived or that their next heat cycle was approaching," Sherlock says, turning around and resuming his pacing.

Suddenly, John remembers Vinette.

"We need to know more about the lives of Omegas who live in the housing complexes."

"You suggest we simply ask the next best resident?"

"No, I happen to have a contact."

Sherlock takes one look at him and nods. "When did you meet them again?"

"At the supermarket. I found her on my last rescue mission before your kidnapping, by the way."

They share a wordless smile, remembering their first encounter and everything it led to, before John shuts the computer, grabs his jacket and follows Sherlock down the stairs.

xXx

Vinette proves to be quite helpful, despite them keeping her form her work.

"Well, there are a lot of activities we're organising. Game nights, movie screenings –"

"Movie screenings?" John asks, astonished.

"The housing facilities come with TVs," Vinette explains. "We also have discussion and self-help groups."

"Do you talk about your heat cycles?" Sherlock Holmes, blunt as ever. Thankfully, Vinette doesn't take offence, although she blushes a little.

"We do... It's not easy, spending a heat alone. So we exchange tips."

"What about spiritual groups?"

"A few. But Mr Holmes, I don't know that much about them. I... Religion is not really for me."

"I didn't ask about some catholics putting up crosses," Sherlock dismisses her statement and John intervenes before his flat mate becomes offensive.

"We heard about groups who worship a Mother goddess. Mother Earth, or Nature. Have you ever heard of anything?"

Vinette furrows her brows, thinking. "A few times, perhaps. One of the women on my floor, she talks about energy flows a lot. I think she mentioned something about Mother Earth once. Oh, and she goes to some meetings, too. I just always thought it was religious. That must be one of those spiritual groups?"

Sherlock is nodding frantically. "Perfect. Can you get me in?"

"In where?"

"Into the building complex. Introduce me to that woman. I need to go to one of these meetings."

A laugh escapes John before he can stop himself. Sherlock at a meeting of a spiritual group? He won't manage to investigate before they ban him from the room for his sarcastic remarks.

Vinette doesn't seem phased. "Alright. Meet me at ten past eight at the back entrance."

xXx

John's phone rings at ten thirty.

"I know where the next murder will take place." Sherlock says without further ado. "There's only one Omega going into heat soon and the murderer will probably have to conclude the ritual within 24 hours of his first matrix harvest, which gives her until shortly after midnight."

John can infer what happened: Sherlock convinced the woman to take her to the gathering and Sherlock deduced who is at the beginning of his or her heat cycle. Finding out the potential victim's name and room shouldn't have been too difficult for a fellow Omega.

"Tell Lestrade and come here. We can catch the murderer red-handed."

xXx

Getting past the guards in front of the building complex proved to be more difficult, especially with two Alphas and a Beta.

"Sirs, if you can't prove you have probably cause, I'm sorry but I can't let you in."

"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard. We received a tip that there will be a murder taking place in room 336."

"I'm sorry," the security guard insists emphatically, "but I have my rules. Without obvious probable cause or a warrant or any other form of legal document, I can't let you in."

John reluctantly draws the only ace up his sleeve. "Sir, we appreciate your persistence. I'm Captain John Watson and Detective Sherlock Holmes is in there right now, waiting for us to back him up on a hunt for a murderer. Please, we need you to let us through."

The guard, a Beta with more muscle than John and Greg put together, seems hesitant at least.

"I promise you, Mister, letting us in won't have repercussions. I'll make sure of that, you have my word."

John tries hard for his most sincere look, holding the Beta's gaze for at least half a minute.

Eventually, the guard sighs. "Alright."

They appear to have come just in time. In the hallway to room 336, a man rushes in their direction, Sherlock at his heels.

"Catch him!" Sherlock shouts. The Omega turns abruptly and disappears through a door. "The victim needs a doctor!"

John, posed to follow the Omega, aims for the room Sherlock stormed out of instead.

Sherlock passes him and John can hear Lestrade, Donovan and Sherlock going after the murderer while he pushes into room 336.

The woman on the floor is a whimpering mess, gagged with a scarf, pressing what looks like a shirt against her bleeding stomach.

Sherlock must have taken a moment to make her press the cloth against the wound, John muses as he takes over for the woman while he removes the scarf single-handedly as fast as he can.

Blood is oozing from underneath the shirt – the knife must have damaged the artery.

John whips out his mobile phone and calls for an ambulance, then shouts at the top of his lungs for help.

xXx

The victim is barely alive when the medics reach the room but she clings to life and slips into a coma at the hospital.

In what Greg describes as a highly adventurous chase, Sherlock, Donovan and he managed to get a hold of the murderer, an Omega called Maurice Stephens.

"Sherlock took one look at him and could tell us everything." The DI sounds amused rather than anything else.

"Please," Sherlock snorts. "He was wearing a wristband with a male name on it. Those bands are regarded as Omega engagement rings since Omegas weren't allowed to marry until the Fall. Maurice was at the meeting I visited, alone. His fiancée Dan probably doesn't even know of his involvement in the group, I'd assume, either because he doesn't approve or because Maurice and Dan aren't talking to each other that much anymore."

"So why did Maurice kill four Omegas for their matrixes?"

"Fertility ritual, obvious." Sherlock snorted. "I overheard Maurice talking with another Omega about homeopathic tinctures to increase fertility, but the tone of his voice suggested that he wasn't really interested. Because he had found an ancient ritual which requires organ sacrifices. Obvious."

John's eyes widen. "Are you saying Maurice just wanted to get pregnant really badly?"

Sherlock nods, mouth tight. "A child would have saved their relationship, at least that was Maurice's logic."

To Greg, Sherlock must look judgmental but John can see the hint of sadness in Sherlock's eyes. Why would Sherlock be sad?

"Where's Maurice now?"

"Holding cell. We're drawing up the charges," Greg explains. "He will be the first Omega trialled for murder and not simply executed."

The fact sends a shiver down John's spine.

xXx

When they get back to Baker Street, John is seriously confused. The previous times he witnessed Sherlock in the aftermath of a successful investigation, Sherlock was always full of energy, but positive energy. Today, there is a strange edge to his excitement, something that seems to be holding him back.

He doesn't, however, say anything about what's bothering him. Not that John expected him to.

Inside the apartment, Sherlock basically flees to his room. There's no other word for it. A few moments later, John hears the now familiar sound of a violin coming through the door.

Sherlock doesn't take well to being disturbed while playing the violin.

So John makes himself a cup of tea and starts to think.

An epiphany hits while he is sipping his third cup, glancing at the date.

It has been a little over 15 weeks since John and Sherlock met for the first time. Which means that almost four months ago, Sherlock went off the Metamoxin.

Metamoxin, apart from suppressing an Omega's scent and the heat, also serves as birth control. While on Metamoxin, an Omega can't get pregnant.

More importantly: An Omega who used to take the pills, no matter for how long, needs to wait at least four months until he or she is able to conceive.

Sherlock is worried about getting pregnant.

John snorts, putting his cup away. Of course Sherlock would freak out at the prospect of bearing a child. His body is transport; the man can't even take care of himself, he wouldn't be willing to support another life.

So why is Sherlock so strung out about this?

_Perhaps he thinks I want kids_, John realises with a start. Ever since his return from Afghanistan, he hasn't thought he could ever have children. As First Officer of the Revolution, it just never registered as an option and he hasn't given it a second thought since.

That is the moment Sherlock emerges from his room, if possible even more tense then before.

John can't stand the tension in the room so he takes a deep breath and clears his throat.

"Sherlock?" All he gets is a non-committal noise. "I just realised that it's been over 15 weeks since you went off the Metamoxin. Do you need me to pick you up a pack of birth control pills from the Clinic?"

John doesn't doubt for one second that Sherlock will see straight through his reasoning.

Yet when he turns to meet Sherlock's blue eyes, he finds them ice-cold and distant, as if he is forcing himself to keep his expression as emotionless as possible.

It takes a long moment before Sherlock answers. "That won't be necessary."

Without another word, Sherlock leaves the kitchen. For a second, John is too stunned to react, but when his mind unfreezes, he hurries after the Omega into the living room.

"What do you mean?"

"Didn't you hear me? Gosh, all these explosions must have rendered you deaf." Sherlock's voice is dripping with sarcasm. John knows he's trying to make John lash out, throw a fit and leave, or something else that doesn't involve talking to Sherlock further.

"Yes, I heard! But what does that mean?"

"That you don't need to procure me any pills."

John sighs heavily. "Sherlock, you don't need to..." He doesn't know how to finish that sentence, though. What exactly is he saying? "It's your body, Sherlock. You shouldn't make that decision likely."

A bitter laugh escapes Sherlock's throat and it is so uncharacteristic of him that it throws John off.

"My body. Yes, that's true."

"I'm sorry, I didn't... What I mean to say is: You can say yes to the pills. I won't mind." Sherlock narrows his eyes and John splutters. "And if you really want to not take birth control, it's okay, too. It's your body, your decision."

Finally, Sherlock's mask is slipping. Yet instead of relief about how supporting John is being, Sherlock looks devastated. There is sadness etched in the lines of his face and probably without noticing it, Sherlock is drawing in on himself.

As soon as it happened, it is gone again. Sherlock straightens, face blank, eyes distant.

"Well, John, no matter what I decide, it won't make a difference."

"Why?" John can feel his frustration mounting. Something is going on and and it is hurting Sherlock; he needs to find out what it is.

"I can't conceive."

John releases the breath he hasn't realised he was holding. "Give it time. Even if you've been taking the Metamoxin since you were –"

"This has nothing to do with the Metamoxin."

"Then what is it, Sherlock! What?" John shouldn't be shouting but he can't help it. Sherlock is hurting and the Alpha in him burns with the urge to protect, to make everything better.

Sherlock swallows, eyes wide but looking anywhere but John.

"I had an operation."

"What kind of operation?"

"It left me infertile."

"I'm sure we can reverse it if that's what you want," John offers, lacking anything better to say, as he puts a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, turning the man around so that he would meet his eye.

But Sherlock only squeezed his eyes shut.

"It's irreversible."

"I'm sure there's something we can do, Sherlock –" he starts, but Sherlock jerks away violently.

"No, there's not!" John has never heard him scream like this – desperate, hurting. John can't but stare at Sherlock as he takes a deep breath before saying, "They removed the matrix."

The silence that follows is like a thick blanket over the apartment, suffocating them.

"When?"

"I just turned thirteen." Beginning of puberty. When Omegas and Betas become futile. When Omegas enter their first heat.

"But you were already taking the Metamoxin," John more states than asks.

"Mycroft didn't want to take any chances. The pills aren't infallible."

Yes, John is aware of that. Of the one per cent chance of Omegas on Metamoxin conceiving despite taking the drug.

"Mycroft did that to you?"

Sherlock nods and the resignation in the movement, the meaning of it, leave John shaking with anger.

"Why? Why did you let him? Why did your parents –"

"My parents were in favour of the operation. Their consent was needed."

John can't believe what he's hearing. "So you're telling me that your brother not only forced another identity on you but also simply decided to make you undergo an unnecessary operation and your parents were okay with that?"

"YES!" Sherlock bursts out, finally opening his eyes. "My mother never left out an opportunity to show how much she regretted having an Omega as a son. I was the black sheep of the family, John. Not only was I socially awkward and always years ahead of my peers intellectually, I also was an Omega and removing my matrix was the only possible solution to keep that dirty little family secret hidden forever."

John wants to hit something. Or kill someone. Preferably Mycroft Holmes. Or Mrs Holmes. He isn't too picky right now.

"I shouldn't even care." Sherlock's voice is barely above a whisper and John doubts he is really meant to hear it.

"Then why do you? I thought your body was just a vessel." John aims for light-hearted but misses by a mile.

John doesn't catch his answer.

"Pardon?"

Sherlock raises his eyes, movement slow and tense as if he is forcing himself to look up and meed John's gaze. "Because of you."

"Wh- Why?" John is completely out of his depth. He is not as familiar with Sherlock's logic as he thought, it would seem.

"You're an Alpha, John. You're going to want children. Children that I won't – and can't – give you."

And it clicks.

Slowly, John crosses the few steps that separate him from Sherlock and he draws him into a tight hug, ignoring Sherlock's half-hearted struggle. Sherlock Holmes can be heartless again tomorrow.

"It's okay," John soothes, "it's okay. Yes, I'm an Alpha but I don't want children. I've just survived a civil war. I wasn't even sure I'd be alive so long. You don't need to worry about children, okay?"

Sherlock is still tense in John's arms. "You will change your mind. It's your biological imperative to breed."

John can sense what Sherlock is implying. "Sherlock, I'm not with you because you're an Omega. You're a brilliant man, and even if you can't bear children, you'll always be brilliant. Don't worry about it." John draws back so he is whispering directly in Sherlock's ear. "I won't leave you alone, Sherlock."

It was the right thing to say. He can feel Sherlock relax, tension gradually seeping from his body as John keeps holding him tight, rubbing soothing circles in his back. Sherlock doesn't cry but he starts to tremble and John draws him closer until it subsides and Sherlock buries his face in the nape of John's neck, inhaling deeply.

The Alpha inside John purrs, content that his Omega isn't hurting anymore.

xXx

**End Notes: **Yes, I know, it's a harsh way to solve he whole mpreg-thing. I guess my inner aversion to mpreg steered me in that direction. So, no, there will be no pregnancy in this fic. EVER.

Also, it might be important to note that Omegas in my AU have no special value. In other AUs, they are cherished because they can have kids. Here, normal biology still works, no matter if you're a female Alpha, Beta or Omega . Only male Omegas can actually bear children. Like I said- mpreg squick ;)

I hope you enjoyed it! Let me know, reactions always make me very happy :)


	8. Reconstruction 2 - Solution in the Eye

**Chapter 2 – The Solution in the Eye**

**Summary: **The story of New Britain after the election. And the story of Sherlock and John, who chase after a serial killer who gouges his female victims' eyes out.

**Author's Notes: **Posting this one day after the last update to make up for my accidental hiatus :) Thanks for the great reviews, folks, it really makes my day to read your thoughts!

Set immediately post-epilogue of Civil Disobedience.

This is the chapter that gave me most grief of all. I had a case, inspired by an ACD short story, but my muse simply didn't want to write it. Until I realised: It's just too boring. Thank you, Kevin Bacon, for inspiring me one weekend and ending my problems :) (so yeah, the case is inspired by "The Following")

Also, I didn't plan on writing any porn this chapter. John and Sherlock had other ideas…

xXx

With unsurprising majority, the Reformist Party wins the election and - equally unsurprisingly - Homi Bhabha becomes the first Omega Prime Minister of New Britain.

When John and Sherlock return to Baker Street after the celebration, John is thrumming with excitement.

"You're happy," Sherlock observes as he hangs his coat.

John grins and the step forward necessary to put his jacket away brings him into Sherlock's personal space.

"We have an Omega PM and you asked me to solve crimes with you. I have every reason to be happy."

"I knew you would like that." Sherlock raises an eyebrow, probably aiming to appear nonchalant, but the way his eyes flicker to John's lips give him away.

"Do you know what else I'd like?" John's voice is heavy with innuendo and right now, he doesn't even care if it's a clichéd line. He crowds Sherlock against the apartment door, bodies not quite touching, faces inches apart.

Sherlock's eyes dilate and John can hear his breath hitch before he swallows. The movement of his Adam's apple is distracting.

"Why don't you show me?"

John gradually closes the gap between their bodies, pressing their torsos together with relish. Sherlock remains still, leaves it to him where he wants to take this.

A slow movement of his hips has Sherlock gasping and he throws his head back, exposing his pulse point and John latches onto it, tonguing it, then sucking down hard. His hands are busy with Sherlock's tie and shirt buttons, then pull the fabric out of Sherlock's suit trousers.

John's mouth moves lower to Sherlock's collarbone, biting at the bone until Sherlock's breath becomes ragged and John has opened the fly.

In one swift motion, John pushes Sherlock's trousers and pants down at the same time, exposing his already hard cock.

Smirking up at Sherlock's half open eyes, John slides down and closes his lips around the tip of Sherlock's glans. He tongues at the slit, knowing fully well that the action drives Sherlock crazy and this time is no exception if the whine that escapes his throat is anything to go by.

John takes him deeper, so deep that he can feel the wet tip against the back of his throat, draws back and swallows Sherlock down again, setting a quick rhythm that has Sherlock writhing against the door, hips buckling, driving himself deeper into John's mouth.

John's right hand wanders from where it was holding onto Sherlock's hips down to his balls, massaging them just the way he knows his partner likes, before he inches further back.

Sherlock groans when the first finger enters him, immediately followed by a second and a third because John finds Sherlock already wet for him. He pushes down, burying John's fingers deeper inside him until they find his prostate.

Moments later, Sherlock arches his back and cries out as his orgasm washes through him and John swallows every last drop.

Sherlock's eyes are still half closed when he draws John up for a bruising kiss. Sherlock uses his height to push John down onto his back, lying half on the carpet, half on the hard wooden floor but he can't find it in him to care when Sherlock steps out of his shoes and trousers and throws his tie aside. He doesn't even bother with his shirt and jacket before he kneels over John, hands eagerly reaching for his fly.

John's trousers wind up around his ankles and Sherlock moves forward, gripping John's cock tight. He moans as he feels the wet heat enveloping him.

Fully sheathed, Sherlock starts moving, rotating his hips just so, again and again, quickly increasing the pace. Every sound that escapes John seems to edge him on more and John can't help but be amazed by how well Sherlock has figured out what makes him crazy.

Just before John can topple over the edge into his own orgasm, Sherlock changes the angle and slows down. Belatedly, John realises that Sherlock is hard again, his heat can't be far off. So he sits up, wrapping his arms around Sherlock and holding him in place. If John could form any sort of coherent thought, he'd be proud of himself for hitting Sherlock's prostate on the first thrust.

John can feel the blood pooling in his knot but wills it down, remembering they're on the uncomfortable floor - not a place to be knotted together for half an hour. Sherlock seems to share his sentiment because he doesn't bear down, doesn't force the knot into himself like he did countless other times. Instead, Sherlock moves faster up and down John's cock, meeting his thrusts until they both have their eyes closed and their breathing comes in spurts.

John's orgasm hits first and he clings to Sherlock like he is his lifeline, trapping his cock between their bodies. Sherlock rides John through the aftershocks, rubbing himself against John's abdomen, until he, too, finds release.

They collapse next to each other on the floor, the wood hard against their lower backs.

It only takes a minute until they notice exactly how uncomfortable their position is, and by unspoken agreement, head into the bathroom together to clean up.

They throw their clothes over the back of the couch haphazardly before they hurry up the stairs to their bedroom, because Sherlock's bed still functions as a surrogate shelf for God knows what, and climb under the covers.

Sherlock half covers John, head resting in the crook of his neck, arm thrown across his chest. The position has become so familiar, it feels like a second skin already.

"Thanks for coming with me tonight," he finally says.

"If I'd known what'd be waiting for me when we got home, you wouldn't have had to spend so much time on convincing me," Sherlock mumbles into John's skin and he can feel Sherlock smiling.

Chuckling, John kisses Sherlock's hair and takes a deep breath, allowing their mixed scent to fill his lungs.

He falls asleep with a smile.

xXx

Bhabha doesn't smile when John tells him that he is retiring to help Sherlock Holmes solve cases.

"New Britain needs you," he insists, but John stands his ground.

"The Reformists needed me. I'm no diplomat, Bhabha, and my men are perfectly capable of handling everything from here. I've bled enough during the revolution."

"Is there anything I can say that will sway you? I'd offer you more money but I know that's of no concern to you."

"Bhabha, I like helping Sherlock. And can you really imagine me heading the Ministry of Defence some day? I need to be out in the field."

It takes a while, but in the end, the Prime Minister agrees, though reluctantly, and only because John promised that he would help out in case of an emergency.

xXx

With the official government in place, the time has come for a new legislation.

The Bill of Rights and the Equality Act are passed three weeks after Bhabha takes over as PM, suspending the Empire's old constitution.

Slowly but surely, New Britain is getting on her feet, weak as they may still be. Literacy campaigns are enforced and a lot of the budged flows into the funding of Omega employment.

The courts have their hands full with Betas who were degraded to Omega status for crimes they committed and who are now facing a fair trial. Some regain their freedom, having paid enough for their sins while others will spend a few more years in prison.

Anti-discrimination laws look good on paper but as it turns out, not many Omegas have the means to make use of them if needs be. The government is urging all citizens to keep a watchful eye out to ensure equality the people fought so hard for.

Of course, Sherlock is unfazed by any of this - his attention belongs to his cases, but John still follows the news, hoping that everything will work out and that the new system won't come crashing down around them.

The first two months with Sherlock pass in a blur: Scotland Yard has enough investigations pending, now that Omegas can't be turned into convenient scapegoats anymore, requiring the reopening of several old cases.

Sherlock and John go through as many cases as the rest of the Yard put together and in the rare moment that they're not busy, Sherlock swings by St Bart's Hospital and talks a young pathologist into giving him a few spare body parts to experiment on.

The moment John finds a severed head in the fridge makes the list of the most scary moments of his life. And he fought in a civil war.

xXx

"A severed head? What does he want with one of those?" Greg wonders, nose turned up in disgust. He sets his beer down on the pub table again.

"Don't ask me, something about coagulation? Most of his experiments are beyond me."

Greg snorts. "Don't put that in your blog, though. I doubt that's legal."

"The thought hadn't even occurred to me." He resists the urge to roll his eyes.

"You know what you're gonna call your latest case?"

"No, but something with splinters, seems fitting." Sherlock was at his best - he identified the murderer by splinters of her nail polish he found at the scene.

Greg takes a sip from his pint, then focuses his eyes on John again, wearing a curious expression. "So, have you and Sherlock finally had the talk?"

"What talk?" John deflects, but knows it's a laughable effort when faced with a DI.

"The one about who's turn it is to bake a cake for Anderson's birthday - come on, you know what I mean."

"Did Judy give you an answer yet?"

The jab at his potential wife has Greg glaring. "Stop deflecting."

"So that's a no? I don't know, I always thought if someone asked me to marry him, I wouldn't get over a week to think about it," he teases. Being around Sherlock has already sharpened John's deduction skills. Though in the face of his flatmate's mental acrobatics, his accomplishments are still nothing short of pathetic.

"Why do you think you don't want to breach the subject? What's Sherlock gonna say? 'Sorry, but this is just a fling after all'?"

Seeing no way out of this conversation, John groans in frustration and buries his head in his hands.

"I don't know, Greg. We've just never talked about any of this. Never. It's always been natural between us. And Sherlock doesn't do emotions very well. It would just be awkward."

"If it's so natural, why can't you answer whether you two are mates or not?"

John regards the Alpha across the table, wondering how much he can give away. They've been meeting semi-regularly these past weeks after the election, have become friends but John isn't sure how much he is allowed to give away.

"Before we met, Sherlock didn't have any friends, and even then, we weren't _friends_… We were a hostage and a kidnapper. We talked, yes, and I always felt drawn to him but… We weren't friends. We were an Alpha and an Omega. I can't tell you when it changed. Jesus, I guess even that first heat was intimate in a completely different way from anything I've experienced before. Perhaps that's why I can't put a name to what we share - it's always been like this. You and Judy, you met, you got closer, you dated, but Sherlock and me - we skipped that completely."

With a sigh, John looks up. "Did that make any sense?"

Greg barks out a laugh. "You want to know my opinion?" John shrugs and the DI goes on. "I've known Sherlock for quite some time. I've seen him around Alphas, Betas, Omegas, important officials, politicians, ministers, millionaires… He's always distant, always wears a mask. I only ever saw him smile around dead people - until you came along." Greg shoots him a smile. "He's different with you, John. Acts like he actually does have a heart. He values your opinion and he actively seeks your company. What does it tell you when a man who never lets anyone get close makes an exception for one person?"

John ducks his head, eyes regarding his beer as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

"The way I see it, you're both just two blokes who are crazily in love but no one's man enough to admit it."

"So what do you suggest I do?"

"Bloody well talk to him already! You fought a civil war, one should think you could handle a conversation."

"I don't want to lose him, Greg."

"You won't. Trust the DI."

Greg sounds so sure and if he's completely honest, John knows the truth as well, but… No but. Greg is right, John needs to talk to Sherlock about this.

"Alright."

Greg raises his pint. "To mates!"

John clinks glasses. "So you're sure Judy will say yes?"

"Shut up and drink, Watson."

Just when they set down their beers and John wants to change the subject to safer matters, Greg's phone rings.

The DI is grabbing his jacket before he even ends the call.

"New case?" John raises his eyebrows questioningly.

"Yeah. I'll text you if we need you." Greg leaves a few bills on the table and rushes towards the doors.

xXx

As it turns out, Greg really needs them.

The cab is pulling up outside an apartment building in Chelsea, one of the nicer parts of town, which actually survived the revolution unscathed for the most part, and John sighs in relief. This might be the first case in a long time that has nothing to do with a new legislation, jealous Betas or a wife whose husband decided to leave her for their former Omega slave girl who now is a citizen with full rights.

Greg meets them outside one of the spacious apartments at the blue and white police tape. His expression doesn't bode well.

"I take it the victim is young, either Alpha or Beta, and has been murdered in a brutal way," Sherlock says before Greg has the chance to open his mouth.

The DI nods curtly. "Annie Wilson, 20, second year at college. The rest you better see for yourselves…" He holds the tape up for them to pass through and John follows Sherlock into the flat.

They find Annie Wilson in the living room, splayed out on the sofa. Her killer must have arranged her pose, for her arms are lying next to her and there is no way a girl who has her eyes gouged out wouldn't thrash wildly about before dying.

She's also been eviscerated, her intestines flowing out of her stomach and onto the ground. The smell almost makes John gag.

Sherlock is already right next to the body, standing between sofa and coffee table, considering the girl with cool-eyed detachment.

"She has been dead for a few hours, putting the murder sometime between four and seven pm," Sherlock starts, eyes darting around the room. "No forced entry suggests she knew the killer, so we need to focus on her immediate circle."

"What do you think the eyes mean?" John asks, stepping closer. He can sense Annie's smell underneath the odour of decay. She was an Alpha.

"I suppose it fits the rest of her wounds," Greg cuts in. "The killer was brutal."

"Not necessarily. If the killer used the same weapon for both the abdominal wound and the eyes, you might be right, but I have a theory that the weapons won't match."

Sherlock is moving around the room now, John realises he is following Annie Wilson's line of sight but apparently she is simply staring into the distance, eyes focussed on somewhere on the ceiling.

"I will call you as soon as forensic has had a look." Greg runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it slightly. "In the meantime I will send you a list of her closest friends we found on her laptop. I'd like to announce we solved this at tomorrow's press conference."

Sherlock is still lost in thought so John nods in his stead, watching the DI as he produces his phone and pushes a few buttons.

Seconds later, Sherlock's mobile chimes and John retrieves it from the other man's pocket without hesitation.

"We'll get started right away. Sherlock?"

He snaps out of his reverie and follows John without another word.

He is on Sherlock the moment they are in the cab. "Spit it out, what's your theory?"

"The eyes, it has to mean something."

"Any idea about what exactly?"

"Several." He doesn't specify and John doesn't push for he knows better.

xXx

It's almost ten when they leave Annie's third college friend's house and John's phone alerts him to a text message.

"There's another crime scene," is all he needs to say before they are both hurrying to find the nearest taxi.

xXx

This time, there are two young girls: Amy Shirley, 21, Beta, and Britney Paxton, 24, Beta. Annie and Amy both attended University College London while Britney went to the King's College. A quick check showed that several of Amy's and Annie's courses match.

"So what role does Britney play?" Anderson asks from his position next to the eviscerated Amy. Her eyes are gaping holes that John tries his best not to focus on.

"The killer was aiming for Amy, of course," Sherlock snaps curtly, again inspecting the victim's line of sight from what John could tell. "When it turned out her roommate was there as well, the killer changed his plans."

"His?" Anderson raises an eyebrow, unconvinced.

"Use your senses, don't you smell the lingering masculine scent?" Sherlock answers irritably and sure, when John inhales and concentrates, there it is. He can't tell wether it is Alpha, Beta or Omega, but it's definitely male.

"Why the eyes, though?" Sherlock mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

"Perhaps the girls saw something they weren't supposed to see? A crime, maybe?" John tries.

"It would be a tad obvious but it's a possibility. Still, they knew their killer, no forced entry, they let him in. They were offering him something to drink, too."

John follows Sherlock's gaze and finds a cupboard door ajar, revealing a selection of whiskey and vodka.

Sherlock is murmuring under his breath, moving around the room, eyes gliding over the spines of books, DVDs, pictures on the walls until they return to the two victims.

"We are looking for a man Annie and Amy knew and liked enough to invite in for a drink. A man who enjoyed killing."

"Are you saying you think we are dealing with a serial killer?" Greg has gone pale. John can empathize - a man on a killing spree is nothing London needs in unstable times like this.

"Only the next murder will tell," Sherlock concludes with a smile.

John clears his throat and takes a step closer to his room-mate. "Sherlock, stop smiling."

The man in question merely raises an eyebrow at him.

"Three girls have been killed."

"Will caring about their deaths help us catch their killer?"

"No."

"Then I will continue not making that mistake. Come on, we have suspects to interview."

Only slightly horrified, John shakes his head, shoots an apologetic smile in Greg's direction and follows Sherlock out the door.

xXx

Two days pass and the best they have come up with is Matt Dahler, fellow student of Annie and Amy.

Upon their first meeting, Sherlock deduced Matt is madly in love with a friend of Amy's, Jennifer Mason. The only problem was that Amy and Annie thought Matt was a veritable nutter and kept up their smear campaign for so long that Matt decided to take matters into his own hands.

Or at least that was what the Met turned Sherlock's assessment of Matt's obsession with Jennifer Mason into. John can almost see it - Matt definitely was a bit barmy, with all the stalking and secret photo taking he was up to. But why eviscerate them? Why gouge their eyes out?

He says so much on Monday when they're in Baker Street, taking the first break since Annie Wilson was found, and Sherlock snorts.

"Of course it wasn't Matt. When the next body turns up, Lestrade will see that as well."

"Why are you so sure there's going to be a next body?"

"The killer wants his work to be seen. Why else would he put so much effort into arranging his victims? Why gouge their eyes out when it doesn't mean anything?"

"Perhaps he's hiding his true motif, tries to throw us off his real motivation by laying a false trail?"

Sherlock shakes his head and picks up his violin. "Criminals like that always miss something. There was nothing out of place with the last three victims. He has no hidden agenda."

He lifts the violin and starts to play.

xXx

Tuesday starts way too early with way too much blood involved. All of it belongs to Molly Lipton, 27, and Omega attending the Imperial College London on a scholarship who has no ties to the previous victims whatsoever. She gained her freedom after the civil war and has been trying to build a life ever since.

Greg rubs his eyes and thankfully accepts the coffee John brought for him. "I really don't want to hold that press conference."

"Look on the bright side," John tries, "perhaps someone will come to you with a clue."

"How will someone know anything when even Sherlock can't find the killer?"

John has no answer for him.

xXx

Sherlock is becoming more and more frustrated with every suspect that provides a bulletproof alibi.

Things go from bad to worse when they find two more victims in quick succession on Thursday night and Friday morning, one of them is student Jennifer Mason, Beta. With Matt Dahler still in custody they now officially have no prime suspect.

Louise Mead, Alpha, 32, is a yoga instructor and doesn't fit into the pattern just like Molly Lipton did.

"So what, is he just picking girls at random?" John feels the desire to hit something and he doesn't know how many more eviscerated girls with empty eye sockets it will take to break what is left of his self-control.

"There has to be a connection!" Sherlock shouts, frustration prominent in his tone. He hasn't been sleeping these past days and John can see the dark circles under his eyes.

"The solution has to be the eyes," John insists, knowing fully well that they have considered thousand possible angles already. There was nothing lodged in the victims' eyes, they weren't looking at anything, their computers and phones were all intact with nothing erased, the weapon used on the eyes never varied…

"It is and I know I'm this close," Sherlock hisses, head in his hands. "This close! The killer is taunting us. Showing off. Either he will get sloppy or he will add another clue. He wants to be appreciated for his work."

"And what if he decides we need to figure it out by ourselves? What then?"

"Then we will figure it out."

There's no sleep that night either, for both of them. John has failed to coax Sherlock into bed with him, not even offering to blow him worked.

"How can you think of sex when there's an unsolved case?" Sherlock snarled at him, batting his hands away.

"Well, if you want to stay up all night, please. I'm getting some rest. Perhaps if we both were able to think more clearly, we'd have a new theory already."

"My thinking is fine," Sherlock snapped back and threw himself into the armchair while John made his way up to bed.

But sleep escapes him - instead his mind is turning over every crime scene in his head, every suspect, every possible motif and murder weapon, again and again until the sun rises on Monday and John surrenders.

xXx

It is already noon when her cleaning lady finally discovers the seventh victim. John's heart doesn't even jump anymore when he sees Greg's caller ID.

The smell of decomposing flesh is also something he has become used to again, months after the civil war has ended,

"Debra Torres," Greg begins when Sherlock and he have gathered around the whirlpool. The water is red with the young woman's blood. Her intestines are swimming close to the surface. The blood that flowed from her empty eye sockets has long since dried on her cheeks. "23, Alpha, attended University College London. We're checking which of her classes matched those of Annie and Amy. She's been dead at least twelve hours."

"And she's propped up in a pool," Anderson points out.

"Thank you for pointing out the obvious," Sherlock drawls but John can see a spark in his blue eyes. This is new, this is interesting, this is what they've been waiting for.

"Well, what does it mean?" Anderson asks defiantly, crossing his gloved arms in front of his chest.

"He is playing with us. The whirlpool is a clue. First the eyes, then the whirlpool…"

"What is a bloody whirlpool supposed to stand for?" Anderson asks, but Greg doesn't wait for answer.

"I don't really care, we need a new lead, Sherlock, or the-"

"EVERYONE QUIET!" Sherlock bellows and the room falls silent. John has to suppress a chuckle at how Sherlock, the Omega, is intimidating a room full of Alphas and Betas rather successfully. "Let. Me. Think," Sherlock grinds out, massaging his temples.

The tense silence that follows is one of the most uncomfortable ones John has ever experienced. Anyone hardly dares to breathe.

Then, startling them the movement is so abrupt, Sherlock's head snaps up, eyes wide, mouth open in realisation.

"Poe."

Everyone looks questioningly at Sherlock, then at John, who equally has no idea what his flatmate is talking about.

Sherlock surveys the room, takes in their blank expressions and sighs. It must be really nice inside his head, John wonders and not for the first time.

"Edgar Allan Poe! Eyes were a recurring symbol, as was a whirlpool. Poe believed the eyes to be the window into one's soul. In '_MS Found in a Bottle_', the whirlpool symbolises insanity. Books of Poe were in Annie Wilson's, Amy Shirley's and Jennifer Mason's apartments."

Stunned silence ensues. John is the first to break it.

"So what does this mean for our killer?"

Sherlock takes a deep breath before answering. "I don't know. We need to find a Poe expert."

Before Greg or anyone else has a chance to say anything, Sherlock is out of the room, John at his heels.


	9. Reconstruction 3 - Art Unfinished

**Chapter 3 – Art Unfinished**

**Summary: **Sherlock and John seek out Claire Caroll, professor at University College London, for information on Edgar Allan Poe and the symbolism of the serial killings.

**Author's Notes: **Since I'm not an expert on Poe, I used criticism regarding The Following voiced by Penn State professor Richard Kopley in an interview. This again proves that we shouldn't believe everything television tells us ;)

Again, I didn't really plan any porn. But stake-outs are boring... and we can't have boring, can we?

xXx

It is still early afternoon when they ascend the steps leading into the University College London building, Greek pillars towering over them. John can see the traces left by the civil war - bullet holes, blackened spots on the stone from where bombs or grenades went off and dark shadows on the stone floor under their shoes where people bled out and the blood hasn't been washed off entirely.

Their target is Claire Caroll, professor for English literature. Luckily, they find her in her office, where she is packing up worksheets and a laptop, presumably for her next class.

Objectively speaking, John can describe her as beautiful with her long, full hair framing a delicate face with high cheekbones.

Sherlock raps his knuckles against the door frame, causing her to look up. Her eyes widen when she sees them and John sighs inwardly. It was very likely that a professor at the university whose students played an important role in the revolution would recognise him.

"Can I help you?" she asks, zipping her bag closed.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, this is John Watson."

"My pleasure! What can I do for you?"

"We need information on Edgar Allan Poe, his works, symbols and literary theory."

The question obviously startles her, but she catches herself quickly.  
"Well, I guess you have the wrong professor."

"I'm sorry, but you are Professor Caroll, aren't you?" John asks, slightly confused.

She nods and smiles. "I am. I'm also teaching English literature, but I'm not an expert on Poe. My husband is."

"Oh, well, can you tell us where we will find him?" Sherlock asks in his most polite tone.

"On Mondays he meets a colleague for coffee after lunch at the small coffee shop across campus. You should still catch him, watch out for his tweed jacket."

Sherlock is already turning around and leaving her office, but John gives her a smile and a sincere "Thanks" before hurrying after the detective.

When he catches up with Sherlock, he looks thoughtful. John knows this expression - a theory is forming.

"What is it?"

"Her husband. A man. Who is the expert on Edgar Allan Poe."

"What are you saying?"

"That we might be meeting our new prime suspect."

xXx

Professor Caroll, the man this time, is probably in his thirties, with short brown hair, a light stubble and a beige tweed jacket. He is coming out of the coffee shop at the same time Sherlock and John reach it and they almost collide in the doorway.

"Pardon," Caroll says and turns to leave.

"Professor Caroll?" John asks because Sherlock doesn't give any signs of speaking up soon. His eyes are focussed on the man adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder.

"That's me."

"Your wife said we would find you here, I'm -"

"John Watson, it's an honour." Caroll extends his hands and John shakes his, noting the firmness of his grip. "And Sherlock Holmes. I'm a huge fan."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow but doesn't extend his hand to meet the one Caroll offered. Caroll drops it without looking too put out.

"Indeed?"

"Yes, I follow your blog, Mr Watson, ever since you left the Reformist forces."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"So, to what do I owe this visit? You said my wife sent you?"

"Yes," John begins, "we were hoping to pick your brain on Edgar Allan Poe."

Caroll's face splits into a huge grin.  
"Of course! I'd relish the opportunity. But if I start now I will talk incessantly and unfortunately, I have a prior engagement. What is this about?"

"A murder investigation," John says, watching the man's face closely but he doesn't react in any suspicious way.

"Oh, yes. The murders. I've read about it in the papers, poor girls. Well, I'd be glad to help the great Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Why don't you come over for a drink tonight? I teach until six, but after that I'm free."

John and Sherlock exchange a look and John nods. "Do you have a card?"

"Of course, hang on…" Caroll rummages in his jacket pockets and produces a small silver case which holds business cards of which he hands John one. "Just call me when you're about to come and I will give you the address."

"Thank you." John accepts the card and waves after Caroll who is making his way across the street with a steady pace.

John directs a questioning glance at Sherlock, as if to ask if the man is a serial killer.

Sherlock gazes after him, eyes narrowed. "He is interesting," is all he says.

xXx

John has a plan: Research David Caroll on the internet the moment they get home. Sherlock and he, however, haven't even hung their coats when Greg calls.

"Any leads?" Greg's voice is tight, the question rushed.

"Perhaps. We're meeting the Poe expert tonight after he finishes his lectures," John says, uncomfortable feeling settling in his stomach. "Any news on your end?"

"We found another body."

One look at Sherlock is enough for the detective to retrieve his coat and lead the way out of the apartment.

xXx

Another Omega, another pair of gouged out eyes, another pile of intestines draped over the victim.

Veronica Martin is lying on the floor this time, however, head turned towards the wall that holds a bookshelf. Of course they find one of Poe' publications.

"Something is off," Sherlock announces as soon as they have entered the crime scene. The fact that he doesn't wait in the far-off chance anyone else has seen the answer says all about how desperate he is to find the killer.

"First, she is displayed on the floor, every other victim was either sitting or lying on respectively in something. Second, she is pointing out the bookshelf containing a work of Edgar Allan Poe, and third, this book has been placed here by the killer. He is confirming our theory. He knows which path the investigation is following and he welcomes it."

"How do you know the book was planted?" Greg asks, approaching the book shelf.

"The layer of dust on the remaining books is thicker than on Poe's copy. Dust doesn't lie, dust is poetic."

Sherlock lets the information settle as he crouches next to Veronica's body.

"She took night classes at the same college as Louise Mead but was in completely different courses. Other than that, there are no obvious connections between her and the other victims."

Something catches John's eye - a bruise on Veronica's left arm, probably left by a hand when the killer grabbed her too tight.

"Our killer is getting sloppy," John says and immediately holds everyone's attention. "There's a bruise. He handled all the other victims with a great amount of care, every murder has been very sophisticated but this time, he left a bruise."

Sherlock smiles at him and John feels a sudden rush of pride.

xXx

They call David Caroll around seven after they had to discard several leads since they turned out to be dead ends after all.

"So, how about you treat him like a suspect and I treat him like an informant?" John suggests as they exit the cab in front of Caroll's apartment building.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "I suppose that will do." John can see Sherlock's jaw working, though the detective doesn't say anything further.

"What?"

"Well, I believe you will get along with Professor Caroll rather splendidly. Don't let it cloud your judgement."

"I won't."

With a clearly dubious look, Sherlock rings the doorbell. Caroll buzzes them in and welcomes them at his door on the second floor, wearing a jumper to his cotton trousers. John can see the tweet jacket on the coat rack in the entrance hall

"Good to see you, come on in." Caroll leads them into the flat which is an odd blend of books and children's toys. "It's just you and me tonight, Claire is out with the little one. Can I get you a drink?"

"No, I'm fine," Sherlock replies.

"Well, if you're offering?" John sees Sherlock's lips twitch.

Caroll fetches them both a beer while Sherlock unfolds the crime scene photos on the living room table.

Caroll stares, eyes wide, and swallows hard. "Oh my god. This is a moment where it all becomes very real."

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the professor. "Your wife mentioned you're the expert on Edgar Allan Poe."

Caroll is rather pale when he manages to tear his eyes away from the pictures. "Yes. But what makes you think your killer has a greater literary purpose?"

"The sophistication to the murders, the way the bodies are handled and displayed, there's a… romance to it," Sherlock says, voice soft and probing, hoping for a reaction. John doubts Caroll can tell that Sherlock suspects him, the way the man seems shocked by the blood and gore.

Caroll shuts his eyes briefly and shakes himself a little. "Poe's eye allegory would certainly fit. You'll find his symbolism full of romance…" He looks around, spots a book on one of the shelves surrounding the table, pulls it off and hands it to them. "Here."

To John's astonishment, Sherlock accepts it. "Great, thanks a lot. We'll get this right back to you."

"Oh no, don't you dare, this is for you. This is a treat for me. Helping the great Sherlock Holmes and Captain John Watson? Now please, may I offer you a drink?"

"Alright, whatever you're drinking." Only John can see the calculation in Sherlock's eyes.

Caroll produces another beer for Sherlock, then a thought seems to hit him.  
"I have something else for you, one moment."

Caroll disappears through a door while John exchanges a slightly worried glance with Sherlock. John's hand darts to his Sig hidden underneath his jacket.

Yet Caroll doesn't come back holding a knife, but a book. "I'm an author, too. This was inspired by Poe's unfinished work _The Light-House_. Wait, I'll sign it for you."

John managed to catch the title - _The Gothic Sea_. He has never heard of this book, however he hasn't been following the bestseller lists that closely either.

Sherlock smiles in what John identifies as fake-gratitude. "Thanks a lot, I'll read it right away."

"Feel free to hate it. Everyone else has."

"It's not doing well?" John chimes in.

"Actually that's the third copy," Caroll explains with an air of bitterness.

"I could give you a twenty or something?" John suggests which makes the professor laugh.

They fall into comfortable small talk. Sherlock was right - John actually has a good time talking to Caroll - "Please, call me David" - while Sherlock skims through the pages of The Gothic Sea.

"How many lectures do you give a week?" John asks at one point and the smirk playing around Sherlock's lips tells him the detective knows exactly that John is asking for an alibi.

David provides them with his entire schedule, which unfortunately gives him an alibi for most of the murders, especially their last case, since Caroll teaches Monday mornings from ten to twelve, the exact time Veronica Martin was killed.

"We really appreciate your help, David," John says when they decide to call it a night.

"If nothing else, it's good beer."

"It's great beer," John concedes, then goes out on a hunch and adds, "We've been working on this case non-stop. Sometimes we just forget to stop and turn it off for a few hours."

John may not be able to see Sherlock's expression, but he is sure the detective is rolling his eyes since Sherlock never forgets. He just chooses not to.

"I couldn't turn it off either if I were you." Caroll sighs. "Must be hard. At least you are working together, so it doesn't get quite that lonely. But the pay-off. Helping people, saving lives… I think what you do is quite remarkable."

John's answering smile is wide and genuine. "Thank you. It's nice to be appreciated."

"Take care."

Sherlock nods and follows John out of the flat and into the street.

"So, what's your verdict?" John dares with a glance at the detective.

"He seems too fascinated with the Romantic Period and especially Poe. I'll know more once I've had a closer look at his book. A person's way of writing can give you great insight into their mind."

Smirking, John raises an eyebrow. "Do you analyse my blog in the same way?"

"Perhaps." But Sherlock's tone is light, so whatever he infers from John's style didn't tell him anything he hadn't already known.

xXx

At Baker Street, Sherlock sends John off to bed, alone. Sherlock never sleeps much on a case and not at all while there is a serial killer on the loose he might be inches away from catching.

He huddles into the sofa, allows the scent of the flat to drown him comfortably without analysing his actions further - he is busy reading Caroll's "masterpiece".

It doesn't take five pages for Sherlock to know exactly why the book flopped.

Apart from his abysmal writing style, he also interprets Poe wrong. Still, Sherlock manages to mostly finish the book before his body gets the better of him and he drifts off into a deep sleep despite his agitation.

It's the smell of breakfast that wakes him.

"Morning, sleeping beauty," John quips from the kitchen doorway. "I'm glad to see reading David's book has such an effect on you. Although I doubt it says much in favour of the book."

"You are quite right in that regard."  
Sherlock stretches and tries to loosen his stiff neck. He wanders into the kitchen where John gently but pointedly shoves him into a chair at the table where a cup of hot tea is already waiting.

"Eat," John commands and it sounds so much like the voice he used as Captain Watson that it sends a shiver down Sherlock's spine.

Bugger. His heat must be approaching.

All the more reason to solve this crime quickly.

"So, what did _The Gothic Sea_ tell us?" John asks after he put away their dishes.

"That Caroll shouldn't teach about things he has no knowledge of."

"Criticising the expert, are we?"

"Please. I had a classical education, we spent weeks on Poe and nowhere did he say anything about the insanity of art and that art had to be felt by the artist and what other rubbish Caroll wants his students to believe."

John doesn't even answer, only looks at him in a way that reminds Sherlock that not everyone shares his intellect and, in this case, his educational background.

"Poe's writing was complex, thoughtfully crafted; by no means insane. Yes, the eyes and the whirlpool were symbols he used, but our serial killer treats his violence as a work of art in itself. Like Caroll argues, the killer believes there is insanity in art and his own form of artistic expression centres on depravity and gratuitous violence. Poe believed that art could elevate the soul and yes, he wrote about dead women and girls, but one needs to take his life history into account!"

John is still listening, so Sherlock barges on, allowing his annoyance to spill into his voice. "Poe's mother died when he was two years and ten months old; a best friend's mother died when he was 12; from the age of 33 to 38, he was watching his wife slowly die from tuberculosis. Enduring death and the dying of the woman he loved was a fact of life for Poe, his art a way of honouring grief and the pain that comes with loss. Caroll has it all wrong."

John stares at him, mouth agape, for half a minute. "Why do you know things like this?"

"I make it my business to know everything of import."

The Alpha smirks at that. "Then tell me, does the earth move around the sun or vice versa?"

Sherlock groans and rises from his chair to escape into the living room. That bloody argument about the solar system. Things like that aren't important to him, why does John have to make such a fuss about planetary constellations?

"Alright, sorry, that was mean," John apologises, following him. "So are you saying Caroll is our madman with an obsession about Romantic literature?"

"Obvious."

"He has alibis for half the murders. And even I can deduce our serial killer isn't working with an accomplice."

Ah, yes. The issue of the alibis. There has to be a way around that.

"I'm working on it."

That exact moment, his mobile phone rings. The caller ID reads "Lestrade".

xXx

The eighth crime scene with the ninth victim is a mess - John has seen war zones that were more organised.

Apparently someone tipped off the press, who are having a feast as it is with a serial killer going around and now are crowding the blue and white tape to one of the Omega building complexes.

John pulls Sherlock's phone out of his coat and dials Greg's number.

The DI picks up on the second ring. "Are you there yet?"

"Yes, but we can't get through the reporters. I guess you don't want them to see us."

Greg sighs on the other end. "There's a back entrance. I'll come get you."

"Worried that Donovan won't let us in?"

"You maybe, but Sherlock would definitely have to stay outside."

John chuckles and tells Sherlock about their change of plans. At the back entrance, Greg waits and the guards let them in without problems.

"Tell me," Sherlock orders, falling into step with the DI.

"Cordelia Gabriels, 26, Omega. Was attending Imperial College on scholarship like Molly Lipton, but they didn't share many classes. Evidence in Cordelia Gabriels' room suggests she wanted to become a vet."

"Forced entry?" John inquires, though he fears he already knows the answer.

"Same as always, knew the attacker. That's part of the reason everyone's going round the bend. If it's someone you know, then who's to say it's not your best friend?"

They have reached the small room Cordelia Gabriels occupied, directly next to the public bathrooms of her floor.

"Any witnesses?"

Greg shakes his head as his eyes follow Sherlock who is already inspecting the room, leaving John access to the body.

"She hasn't been dead long."

"We estimate time of death around eight am," Anderson informs him curtly.

John and Sherlock exchange a meaningful glance. David Caroll gives lectures on Tuesday mornings from eight to twelve and is always half an hour early.

With nothing else to do, John inspects every inch of the victim's body. He sees burn marks on her forearms, probably left by a cruel Alpha once. They look like they are from cigars.

Cordelia is wearing a short skirt and a blouse whose top three buttons are open, exposing more of her cleavage John would deem proper for a college student on scholarship. Her legs are spread, her black tights ripped at places, exposing scarred skin underneath. The entire display has a truly sexual overtone and it makes John shiver uncomfortably.

Most of her torso is covered in blood from the abdominal wound but something catches his eye.

A small puncture wound in the crook of her elbow, as if from a needle. There is only one, suggesting she wasn't an addict of some kind.

"Sherlock?" he calls and moments later, the Omega is standing next to him. "This looks like the mark of an injection."

"Interesting."

When Sherlock goes quiet, John glances up and finds the detective staring into nothing, hands moving with jerky motions, mumbling under his breath. His mind palace.

John knows better than to move and break his concentration so he inspects the corpse further. Her neck, where it isn't covered in blood, bears scars as well - she probably was equipped with a low-quality collar. If one tugged too hard on it for too often, it would cut the flesh repeatedly and the poor sanitary conditions most Omegas had to endure during slavery did the rest to prevent wounds from healing.

"Proferroxin."

Startled, John rises from his crouched position to shoot his flatmate a questioning look.

Sherlock sighs when faced with too many unknowing expressions, then explains. "Proferroxin is a drug used in taxidermy, the art of preparing dead animals while preserving their bodies. Proferroxin delays the symptoms of decomposition. The use on human bodies is forbidden, obvious, but it has a similar effect."

The extent of this realisation hits John like a blunt weapon to the head. "You mean our killer could have murdered his victims before the official time of death?"

Sherlock nods. "You need to test all the victims for the drug immediately," he tells Lestrade and makes to leave, almost bumping into the DI.

"Where are you going?" Greg looks more than a little overwhelmed. John feels for him but he knows that they need to move, now.

"We're tailing a suspect," he explains and hurries to catch up with his flatmate. "We are going to follow David Caroll, aren't we?"

"Obvious."

"Brilliant. Because stake-outs are usually so exciting."

xXx

As it turns out, John's feeling was correct. Shadowing David Caroll has to be the most tedious task he has ever undertaken, including manning an observation tower in Afghanistan. At least there he was allowed to shoot scorpions.

They "borrowed" Greg's car - that is, Sherlock stole his keys when he left the crime scene, so John sends the DI an apologetic text message when he finds out.

Their mission turns up nothing on Tuesday; sitting in the car for so long only makes John itch. Thus he is the one always making runs for tea and food, occasionally simply stretching his legs.

He hopes that they catch Caroll soon, he really wants to get back to training Lubitsch and the rest of his former soldiers - a job that Bhabha persuaded him to fulfil as often as he can fit it into his schedule between cases. John isn't complaining. It allows him to keep in touch with his comrades and keeps his body in shape.

Now that is the benefit even Sherlock values.

John returns from an actual coffee run around eleven thirty at night. The lights in Carol's apartment are still on.

"Nothing of importance to report," Sherlock tells him, obviously bored. He has already inspected Greg's glove compartment and made a series of deductions John would rather die than reveal to the DI. Other than that, there is nothing to do and Sherlock doesn't cope well with boredom.

He then has gone through every detail of every crime scene in the hope to discover anything they have previously missed.

Around seven Greg called to confirm the use of Proferroxin on five of the nine victims.

"We could try to sleep, I doubt he will commit any crime before six am since you said the drug only delays death by two to three hours."

"I'm not tired."

"Suit yourself," John says with a deep fondness in his voice as he tries to get comfortable in the passenger seat.

An enticing smell wakes him and a look at the clock tells him he slept for about an hour. Inhaling deeply he has no trouble identifying the spicy-sweet smell in the air.

Sensing John is awake probably, Sherlock shifts in the driver's seat.

"This makes no sense," he complains, "my heat isn't due until next week!"

The detective sounds highly annoyed and John can understand him. Until now, Sherlock's heats have never coincided with the peak of one of their investigations.

"Extreme stress can cause the cycle to start prematurely," John supplies, shifting his body so he is facing Sherlock. "How can I help?"

"There will be no helping, John, we are on a case."

"We're on a boring stake-out where the most interesting thing happening is a neighbour walking his dog. Caroll is asleep."

"But we can't miss when he leaves the house. Could you live with yourself knowing that another woman died?"

John can't but snort at that. "Don't pretend it's about the victims. You just want to catch him."

"You do, too."

"Yes, but we won't if you can't think straight because all your blood has left your brain in favour of your groin." John pointedly glances at the bulge in Sherlock's trousers.

"No. It's not necessary."

John sighs. He knows a lost battle when he sees one, and Sherlock will come around when his biology takes over most of his higher brain functions in which case John will be there for him in whatever way Sherlock wants him.

xXx

He doesn't have to wait long. Thirty minutes later, Sherlock can't keep still although he tries to force his body to obey him, and the way he is writhing on the car seat, probably already dripping, is particularly filthy and shouldn't turn John on as much as it does.

The smell of an Alpha's arousal is too much and with a groan, Sherlock turns his head to look into John's eyes.

"Make it quick."

Treating it as a challenge, John tells Sherlock to climb into the back seat where they have more space - not particularly much but it will have to do.

Swiftly, John opens Sherlock's fly and pulls down trousers and pants, exposing Sherlock's hard and leaking cock. John doesn't wait more than a second before he closes his mouth over the glans and sucks down, hard and fast, building a ruthless rhythm. He forgoes Sherlock's balls and uses the hand not holding his shaft to circle Sherlock's hole that is already wet, just like John predicted.

They haven't had sex since the murders started, so John starts with two fingers and quickly has Sherlock ready to take another one. He works them in and out, alternately stroking his prostate and pushing past it while swallowing down all of Sherlock he can handle.

Sherlock is writhing, biting down on his hands to muffle the sounds that spill from his throat. When John deep-throats, however, Sherlock cries out sharply before he manages to clam two hands over his mouth.

John would smirk maliciously if he didn't have his mouth full of Sherlock's heavy cock. He wants to test Sherlock's restraint so he engulfs his length again until he can feel the tip hit the back of his throat but he still takes Sherlock in further.

He swallows around him at the exact moments his fingers find Sherlock's prostate and Sherlock's hips jerk once, twice and then he is shouting John's name as he literally comes down his throat.

Moments pass with only their heavy breathing filling the car. John's own erection is almost painful underneath the fabric of his trousers but it can wait. Knowing Sherlock, he will need at least two more rounds before his heat is sated.

Not even ten minutes pass before he feels Sherlock's hands at his fly, opening it and tugging at the fabric.

A glance confirms Sherlock is hard again and John pushes his trousers and pants down until they reach his ankles, then toes off his shoes and strips completely.

When he focuses on Sherlock again, he finds the Omega on his fours, probably not even aware how he is presenting his arse, perineum glistening in the light from a street lamp outside the car window.

John stifles a groan and takes the invitation, sliding in with one quick thrust.

Sherlock pushes back, urging him on and he understands - make it fast is still the top priority.

So John wanks Sherlock's cock with one hand while he fucks him hard into the car seat at a pace that has both of them gasping and sweating.

Just in time, John remembers that they are in fact in Greg's car and he retrieves the only thing he can find - Sherlock's scarf - to cover the fabric of the back seat before Sherlock climaxes and spills white fluid all over it.

The muscles around John's cock convulse just right, sending John over the edge with a stifled moan.

"Is that my scarf?!" Sherlock asks in alarm a few moments later since, as experience has taught John, Sherlock's brain rebounds a lot quicker from orgasm then his own.

"It was either that or explain the stains to Greg."

Sherlock shudders at the thought, placing the sullied scarf behind the headrest, glancing outside at the same time.

"Their flat is still dark."

"And you need at least one other round," John comments, letting his voice drop an octave lower than usual.

Having obviously resigned himself to his body's biology, Sherlock chooses to crawl between John and the backrest, draping himself half over him in the process, instead of keeping watch at the window.

John kisses him breathless, then traces Sherlock's jaw with his tongue, moving lower until he can tease Sherlock's pulse point which has the Omega hard in no time once more.

John wants to lean up but a hand on his chest stops him. Smirking, Sherlock untangles himself from his shoes and pants at last, then swings one leg over John so he is straddling his hips, Sherlock's erection brushing against John's half-hard cock deliciously.

Sherlock shuffles lower, one hand gripping John firmly before he licks a wet line along his shaft. John presses his mouth shut to keep the sounds in because, frankly, Sherlock gives amazing blow jobs.

Though this time, Sherlock only wants to get him fully hard for he pulls off way too soon and John whines at the loss of the wet heat of Sherlock's mouth.

He doesn't have to wait long. In one fluid, graceful movement that never ceases to amaze John no matter how often he watches it, Sherlock lowers himself onto John's cock. Once he is fully sheathed, Sherlock rotates his hips sinfully slow and John has to use every ounce of self-control to keep his hips in place.

Sherlock is beautiful like this, his lithe body shimmering with sweat, nipples hard and John stretches out his hands to tease them between his fingers. It is mean, he knows, for this is one of Sherlock's many erogenous zones and within a few minutes Sherlock is grinding down at a strong rhythm, moving his hips just so.

The strain of holding his body up becomes too much then and John slumps back into the seat. He adjusts his hips slightly, brushing against Sherlock's prostate and Sherlock immediately covers his mouth with a hand.

John has to close his eyes, the friction is increasing as Sherlock's movements become erratic and John bites the inside of his cheek to keep him from moaning as he feels a familiar heat pool in his groin.

It takes effort to will his knot down this time - the Alpha in him senses his Omega is in heat and wants to lock their bodies together, but John can only imagine the way Sherlock would complain.

The small distraction turns his orgasm into a surprise and he comes so hard his vision blurs for a moment. Sherlock rides him through the aftershocks, working himself hard on John's cock, until he topples over the edge, too and coats John's chest with long, white spurts.

Sherlock all but collapses onto him, his body moulding itself into John's side as always, this time careful to avoid the mess on John's chest and abs.

"We should get a car," Sherlock says, somewhat non sequitur.

"We don't need a car." John raises an eyebrow but Sherlock's clever expression is enough to make the other shoe drop. John laughs. "No, we are not buying a car just so we can have sex in it."

"Then we need to borrow this one more often."

"Greg will poison my beer the next time we're at the pub."

"Not if he never finds out."

"We're talking about the same Greg Lestrade here? The Detective Inspector?"

"Please, like I couldn't fool him."

"Let's leave this a hypothetical idea."

"An idea is always hypothetical."

"People shouldn't be this smart, post-coital."

"I'm not like other people."

"No. You aren't." John smiles and gently dips Sherlock's head back for a leisurely kiss, wallowing in the smell of sex and satisfaction.

xXx

Sherlock shakes him awake at six thirty in the morning.

"Caroll is on the move," is all he says before he starts the car. John is glad he made the effort of getting dressed at some point during the night.

He can discern the professor's figure in the distance as the man gets into his car. Sherlock follows him at a safe distance, brilliantly navigating the traffic as to not arise Caroll's suspicion, through London.

They aren't going to University College, that much is certain.

Sherlock and he exchange a meaningful look when Caroll pulls into a parking slot at King's College campus housing. John rummages in the glove compartment and throws Greg's Met parking permit behind the windscreen and follows Sherlock out of the car.

John's hand immediately darts to his gun and stays there, not wanting to take the chance that Caroll has spotted them and decides to lay a trap.

Sherlock raises a fist before they round a corner and out of reflex, John stops.

"He entered a flat. We need to wait for a sign that he is actually hurting someone or he will be able to find a way out of this."

John nods and they proceed to the door of flat 2-41, listening for the smallest sound.

Sherlock actually has his ear pressed against the door. "They are talking. Three voices. His victim has a roommate."

A few quiet moments pass, then a high pitched scream pierces the silence and Sherlock tries the door knob but it won't give.

"Step away," John shouts and his foot hits the door the second Sherlock is out of the way. The door breaks at the first try and Sherlock slips into the flat before John can enter, Sig raised.

John sees Sherlock glance at the brunette Beta who lies on the living room floor, eviscerated with much more force than the previous victims, but the detective follows the sounds of fighting into the kitchen.

A quick check confirms that the Beta's heart has stopped beating, then John proceeds into the kitchen where Sherlock is currently pulling David Caroll off a blonde woman who is clutching her bleeding arm.

Caroll has a knife which he tries to hurt Sherlock with, yet thankfully, Sherlock is versed in hand-to-hand-combat and manages to deflect every jab. Sherlock's back is to John, so he can't get a clear shot at Caroll but within a split second, Caroll wheels Sherlock around, raising the knife.

Sherlock is caught off balance and the moment he needs to regain his footing is enough for Caroll to sink the knife into his right side.

John pulls the trigger the very first second he can, but it's still too late.

Caroll screams in pain, then topples to the ground, revealing Sherlock leaning against the kitchen counter, the knife stuck in his lower torso.

John hits Caroll over the head with the butt of his Sig to keep him unconscious before he is at Sherlock's side, catching him as he threatens to fall over.

"I've got you."

"I hope you didn't kill him."

"No, Sherlock, I made sure you can question him - Jesus, are you listening to yourself? You have a knife stuck in your body, bloody hell!"

"A non-fatal wound and you know it."

"The way it's bleeding the knife hit your kidneys, you need to lie down."

John stifles his Alpha impulses and addresses the blonde who is threatening to go into shock at any moment.

"Miss, what's your name?" Then, louder, "Miss?"

She startles, blinks and focuses her eyes on John. "Sarah. Sarah Fuller."

"Sarah, I'm John. This is Sherlock. You put up a good fight. Now can you go to the phone and call for ambulances?"

She simply looks at him for a moment, though when the words sink in, she rushes out of the kitchen.

John guides Sherlock into the living room and lies him down between the sofa and the TV, as far enough away from the brunette's body as possible. John pulls the coffee table closer and puts Sherlock's legs up.

"Stay still; I'll look for a first-aid kit."

He passes Sarah in the hallway as she hangs up. "First-aid kit?"

"Bathroom," she answers, then hurries through a door and comes back out with the small box.

John accepts it and hurries back to where Sherlock is oozing blood all over the carpet. He pulls the phone out of Sherlock's jacket and offers it to Sarah who takes it with shaky hands.

"Alright, I need you to go to the call list and select Lestrade," John tells her while he puts on gloves and pulls out as many compressions as he can find. "Call him, tell him you are with John and Sherlock. Give him your address and tell him we caught the killer. Can you do that?"

She nods, pushes at the screen and brings the iPhone to her face.

John listens with one ear while he moves Sherlock's hands to put pressure on the dressings.

"He's on his way."

"Good. Can you sit down and take the scissors from the first-aid kit? Cut the sleeve of your shirt off so I can tend to your wound."

She nods again and John returns his focus to the detective on the floor who is growing increasingly pale.

"Sherlock, you've been lucky. The knife apparently only punctured your kidney and missed the liver. You will need an operation at the hospital but you will be fine, alright? Press down on the wound, don't play with the knife. I will bandage Sarah's wound."

Sherlock's answering nod is so small that John hardly sees it.

When he turns, he finds Sarah sitting, wound t-shirt sleeve free, staring at the brunette on the floor.

"Sarah, can you look at me?" John asks softly and is glad when Sarah's eyes find his. "I'm sorry about your friend. But you survived, you did well. Now I'll patch you up, you're bleeding quite a bit."

She nods and allows him to use the last dressing on her wound. He can already hear the ambulances approaching as well as the siren of the police and finally the relief floods his body, now that Sherlock's wound is tended to and Sarah's breathing is evening out.

When the A&E arrives, everything passes in a rush. John is telling the doctors about the three patients when Greg approaches him.

"How's Sherlock?"

"Bleeding but he'll live."

Greg nods and follows John's eyes to where Sherlock is wheeled out of the flat. "Go with him. I'll find you at the hospital."

John smiles briefly in gratitude, then breaks into a run to follow Sherlock into the ambulance.

xXx

As soon as they reach the hospital, Sherlock is rushed into surgery, as is David Caroll since the bullet is apparently lodged between his ribs.

Greg finds John in a waiting area near the OR.

"Are you up to giving your statement?"

John shrugs. "It passes the time."

"He'll be alright, won't he?"

"Yes. But still, if I had had a clear shot earlier -"

"Why don't you tell me what happened? I'm sure I'll still say there's nothing you could've done differently. And you did save Sarah Fuller's life."

"Where is she?"

"With a doctor. Donovan will interview her."

"Well then," John sighs, running a hand over his face before he gives his testimony.

"You did well, John," Greg says once he is done, patting his shoulder. "Who knows how many other girls Caroll would've killed before he stopped. If he had stopped at all."

John doesn't answer; everything that comes to his mind are empty phrases.

"There is something else," Greg continues and John's head snaps up. "Somehow the press has heard that we had an address, little buggers must've been listening to our radio again. Anyway, a few reporters were outside when they transported Sherlock into the ambulance. You might get a little more attention than before from now on."

John groans - the press following their every move isn't something he wants to happen.

"Well, I'll deal with the vultures. Say hello to Sherlock for me. I'll visit for his statement later."

John nods but halfway down the hallway, Greg stops. "You wouldn't happen to have my car keys, would you?"

He shakes his head. "They are in Sherlock's coat pocket. I'm sure they will give them to you if you ask nicely."

"Alright, I'll charm the nurses."

"Be careful not to mention that to Judy!"

Greg's answering laugh echoes in the corridor.

xXx

Sherlock is out of surgery in a little over three hours, which is a good sign, John muses. He has to wait until Sherlock is out of the recovery ward but soon, he is allowed to see him again.

The hospital gown is not a good look on the detective, the IV even less so, but at least Sherlock is alive.

The nurse told him it will be a little longer until Sherlock wakes up, so John decides to chance a look at his chart.

When the receptionist turns out to be a young female Omega, John can't believe his luck. It is rather easy for Captain John Watson to persuade her to hand him the chart for a quick look. Like he predicted, the knife missed the liver but punctured the kidney, yet the surgeons were able to repair the damage.

John thanks the woman and hands her back the file, then hurries back to Sherlock's private room. They probably have Greg to thank for that one, and that even after they stole his car.

Sherlock drifts back into consciousness slowly, eyes adjusting to the light and surveying the room.

He brings his hand up to his stomach and probably feels the bandages underneath the gown. He looks questioningly at John in the chair beside him.

"You had a nephrectomy. You spent three hours in surgery but they expect a full recovery."

"Caroll?"

"Had to undergo surgery to retrieve the bullet. He'll walk out of here and into a prison cell in no time."

Sherlock smiles triumphantly. "I found out why we couldn't discern whether the murderer was Alpha, Beta or Omega. He can shift, just like that Adler woman."

"Brilliant, as always."

"Well, apprehending Caroll would have proven difficult without backup."

"Is this your way of thanking me for saving your life?"

"You know me too well."

John laughs, warmth spreading in his chest and he leans in to press a soft kiss against Sherlock's lips.

Belatedly, he remembers that he never did get around to having The Talk with Sherlock like he promised Greg. That night in the pub seems like a lifetime ago.

"Can't you kiss me properly?"

"You're recovering from trauma surgery. No strenuous physical activity, doctor's orders."

Sherlock groans and throws his head back into the pillow. "How long will they keep me here, then?"

"Ten to twelve days."

Sherlock's eyes widen for a second before he clears his throat and begins talking at high speed. "Then I need you to go back to the flat and pick up the books from the coffee table, as well as my laptop. Then I need you to check the tupperware box in the kitchen and tell me the colour. The exact colour, not just some approximation your brain has come up with. Better yet, take a picture, this way we can avoid awkward silences. Light it well, please."

"Anything else?"

"My violin."

John rises from the chair with a smile. "Of course." John regards Sherlock for a moment longer, then, impulsively, leans in again to press a kiss on Sherlock's hair.

"I love you, by the way."

Sherlock's face goes slack, like the news is an absolute surprise for him and perhaps it is, the concept of love hasn't occurred to Sherlock's brilliant mind.

"I'll see you later," John says then, clarifying that he doesn't expect an answer of any kind, and leaves the room to fetch everything Sherlock ordered.

xXx

**End Notes: **I'm never sure about using the "I love you" line in fics but it just had to be said :)

I invented Proferroxin. If something like it actually exists - great :) Well. For the taxidermy professionals…

Thanks to my MD sister for advice on the knife wound! Originally the plan was to give Sherlock a scar like Ryan Hardy has on the show, just on the other side to avoid the pacemaker issue. Turns out puncturing the lungs is no fun at all either, so kidney it is.

Anyway, thanks for all the positive feedback I've received so far, you guys are the best!


	10. Reconstruction 4 - Omegas Rising

**Chapter 4 – Omegas Rising**

**Summary: **Sherlock and John are instantly famous after taking down David Caroll and more high-profile cases further their popularity even more. Their relationship runs smoothly, too - until a family emergency commands John's attention.

**Author's Notes:** I am utterly sorry for the delay! Thank you all for your lovely reviews and favourites and follows :) it's great to see you are enjoying this!

xXx

Sherlock and John become celebrities overnight.

John goes to bed after bringing Sherlock what he requested and staying until the nurses kicked him out, only to wake up the next day in a world where there are reporters camping out in front of 221B Baker Street.

"Mrs Hudson!" he calls, having slammed the front door in the cameras' lenses.

"Oh, haven't you read the papers today, John?" she asks and he follows her into her kitchen where she hands him a copy.

Like Greg predicted, Sherlock and John were spotted at the crime scene, Sherlock on a gurney, John soaked in blood.

"They are calling you heroes, John, say you saved a girl's life and caught that awful man who has been terrorising London. My neighbour even called! And I couldn't tell them anything since it was so late when you returned. What happened, John? Is Sherlock alright?"

John nods, putting his hands on her shoulders to calm her down. "He was stabbed but he will be fine. He had surgery-"

"Surgery?!"

"Yes, but he's going to be alright. And yes, we caught the murderer."

"Thank God. Are you going to the hospital now?" John nods again. "Give Sherlock my love and he better eat the food they give him; the way I know him he hasn't been eating while that serial killer was at large."

John smiles, squeezes Mrs Hudson's shoulders and boldly fights his way through the hoards of reporters and photographers on the street.

xXx

Somehow, Sherlock manages to get himself released from the hospital in five days instead of ten (and judging by the nurses' looks they are glad to see him go, no matter how much damage control John tried to do; well, they should have known better than to send nurses who sleep with married doctors after the first two days) and by that time, the public has been well informed about what happened at King's College.

Perhaps the repercussions hadn't been so severe if John and Sherlock weren't who they are, namely the former Alpha leader of the Resistance forces and his former Omega hostage who also ensured the Resistance's victory over the Traditionalist.

As it now is, though, the press is having a field day, turning Sherlock and him into the paradigm of modern society: An Alpha and an Omega, working together as equals. The fact that they are apparently in a relationship is an added bonus.

The hits on John's blog spike, especially after he posts "The Solution in the Eye" and both of them are bombarded with requests to take over cases.

Sherlock turns down 70 per cent on the spot, solves another 20 per cent within the first five minutes of meeting the postulant, and takes over the remaining ten per cent. Greg contributes his own share of intriguing cases to keep them busy.

John follows as he always has, even provides helpful ideas from time to time, puts his military expertise to good use and blogs about their successes.

The most publicised is the case of a kidnapped millionaire which Greg forced upon them, despite the emphatic "Boring!" the crime received from Sherlock in the beginning. John is glad he was able to persuade Sherlock to take it nevertheless; it did bring in quite a nice amount of money to supplement John's government wages for training the recruits and consulting in meetings regarding new legislations and reforms whenever he can.

While Sherlock has never mentioned John's declaration of love that day in the hospital since then, John can tell that Sherlock believes him and that he, in his own particular way, returns the sentiment.

Sherlock doesn't tell him, though he lets his actions speak for themselves. It is in the small gestures, in the way he looks at John when they wake up side by side, when he initiates a kiss just to kiss him and not to start anything and the way he trusts John with his life over and over again.

"Still, why can't he just say it, for Christ's sake?" Greg wonders loudly, but then he is at his fifth pint that night.

"I don't need him to say it, Greg, I know," John replies with conviction.

The DI sighs into his glass and the miserable look is back. Sherlock deduced his wife Judy is cheating on him after only three months of marriage.

"Sherlock's right, that wanker. Of course he's right. I checked her text messages; she's sexting with her tennis instructor."

"I'm sorry," is all John can say. He briefly wonders what he would do if Sherlock cheated on him, but the thought is so far-fetched that he can't treat it seriously.

"And I wanted to talk to her about kids, you know," Greg rambles on, emptying his pint and promptly ordering a sixth. "Always wanted to be a father… What about you two? Your kids should be a handful, what with Sherlock's brains and your brawn."

John snorts at the thought. "We're not having kids, Greg."

"Really? Yeah, well, the Guardian would love you for raising kids. But only if you get married first; now that Omegas can, you know."

"Greg, we're not getting married and we're not starting a family. Have you met Sherlock?" Greg chuckles, swaying slightly in his seat. "Besides, we get enough media attention as it is. I don't understand how people would want to see so many pictures of me, it's annoying. Would I get away with shooting the reporters?"

"Keep saving millionaires and you just might," Greg jokes, accepting his sixth beer.

xXx

Sherlock is in his bedroom, respectively his laboratory, checking on the jars he has been cultivating smelly stuff in. By now, John doesn't even ask, yet banishes some of his experiments from the kitchen when they turn into a health hazard.

John pauses in the doorway, observing how Sherlock's long fingers dance over the surface of a tablet (gift from the millionaire along with rather ugly cufflinks), probably noting how the smelly stuffs' colours developed over the past twelve hours or something similarly arbitrary. Well, arbitrary to John.

"Stop watching, John, it's distracting."

"Perhaps that is my intent."

"Put your libido on hold for another fifteen minutes, if you please."

John smirks even though Sherlock can't see it with his eyes trained on the screen. "Alright; shall I warm up the bed? Or are you in the mood for defiling the sofa tonight?"

John watches Sherlock swallow hard with satisfaction. "What would said defiling entail?"

"Me rimming you within an inch of your sanity and then shagging you until all you remember is my name."

Sherlock wets his lips, fingers pausing over the screen, and tries to control his body but John knows it will be only a matter of moments before Sherlock pounces on him.

"I'll be on the sofa, then. Come out whenever you're ready." John doesn't leave right away but opens the bottoms of his shirt, nice and slow, tugging it out of his trousers before he proceeds into the living room and continues to undress.

Sherlock is out of the bedroom, already naked, before John can step out of his trousers and sinks to his knees in front of John, long fingers slipping underneath the waistband of his pants and tugging them down, freeing John's already hard cock. John sported an erection ever since he got into the taxi at the pub; his thoughts already at home with Sherlock spread out naked and begging.

Sherlock takes his time, teasing the shaft with his tongue, playing with John's balls, kissing the slit and licking his lips to catch the precome. Sherlock draws it out until John is seconds away from grabbing Sherlock's hair and fucking his mouth and his partner is fully aware of this. They know each other too well by now, is the last coherent thought John can form before Sherlock swallows him down in one go, relaxing his jaw and taking him in until his nose is in John's pubic hair.

Sherlock pulls back, twisting his tongue, then heat engulfs John once again and all he can do is hold onto the sofa's backrest for support to stay upright as Sherlock sucks him off with the incredible focus and determination he brings to cases. He tongues the spot where his glans meets the shaft, then moves up to the slit and John's hip buckle forward. Sherlock takes him into his mouth again, increasing the pace.

John's breath is coming in erratic gasps by then and when he feels Sherlock's lips sucking at his balls, he swears loudly. Sherlock swallows his cock again and when John can feel his throat convulsing around the tip, he spends himself deep down Sherlock's throat with a strangled moan.

Sherlock oozes complacency when he rises but John swiftly wipes the smirk off his face by moving him around the sofa and shoving him onto his stomach. John covers Sherlock's body with his own, sucking at his neck so hard he leaves a bruise behind and Sherlock is rutting into the cushions.

Like he promised, John licks a wet trail down Sherlock's spine, counting every vertebrae, until he reaches the cleft of his firm arse. His hands cup each cheek and pull them apart, granting him access to Sherlock's hole. John laps at it, teasing the rim, enjoying the taste of Sherlock's slick on his tongue. John's lips close over his hole and he sucks, swallows the fluid Sherlock's Omega physiology provides like it is nectar and he hears Sherlock whine above him.

Only now John pushes his tongue inside, loosening the ring of muscle, his hands holding Sherlock's hips in place so he can't rock back into him. John explores every inch of Sherlock, maps it out and pulls out again, sucking in the slick that is flowing more profusely now. Sherlock has never been this turned on outside his heat and John's chest swells with pride as he swallows.

"Please, John," Sherlock begs and John's cock twitches between his legs. John doesn't oblige right away; instead he licks a path down to Sherlock's balls and sucks them into his mouth until Sherlock is swearing into the sofa cushion.

Only then John pushes into his hole again, working his tongue in and out in a quick rhythm that has Sherlock's back arching. John takes good care to stretch Sherlock at the same time to prepare him for John's cock which is starting to fill again, fuelled by the sounds that escape his partner's throat.

John adjusts his grip, spreading Sherlock's cheeks wider so he can press deeper inside Sherlock, working his tongue in as far as possible. He alternates between sucking at Sherlock's entrance and fucking him with is tongue furiously and in no time Sherlock shudders with release.

John allows him a few moments to catch his breath, then pushes Sherlock a little further onto the sofa so he is on all fours. John drags the tip of his leaking cock over the twitching hole and Sherlock rocks back.

"You're eager tonight," John purrs, leaning back so that his cock doesn't enter yet. "Do you want my cock so much?"

"Yes," Sherlock pants, "fill me up, shag me until I'm hard again, please, John!"

John rams into Sherlock with one well-practiced thrust and buries himself to the hilt inside Sherlock. The Alpha in him roars with pleasure and John doesn't stop his knot from filling when it does. John pulls out and pushes back in, adjusting his angle to hit Sherlock's prostate. Sherlock cries out, throwing his head back and John leans forward, sucking on the already forming bruise again, revelling in the sight of the mark on Sherlock's pristine skin.

The movement pushes John's knot against Sherlock's body and it elicits a full-body shudder from the detective.

"You like the feeling of my knot against my arse?" John whispers in Sherlock's ear and bites his other shoulder.

Sherlock moans in response and John pushes in deeper, forcing his knot harder against Sherlock's entrance.

"Please," Sherlock begs and John couldn't have waited if he wanted to, his Alpha instincts taking over at the sound of his Omega begging to be knotted.

John withdraws and slams back inside with enough force to push the swollen base of his cock inside Sherlock's hole. He gasps under him, arms giving out and Sherlock lands on his elbows, bowing his head. John licks a stripe up his spine, then tongues Sherlock's pulse point which always makes him writhe and this time is no exception. Sherlock wriggles and clenches on John's cock, sending jolts of intense pleasure through his body.

John's next thrusts are shallow, stretching Sherlock a bit more so he will take his knot with less resistance when he pulls out and presses in again.

Sherlock positively whines when John's knot leaves his body only to moan deeply when he feels it inside him once again.

John can feel his orgasm building and he reaches down, wrapping a hand around Sherlock's cock but it only takes a few strokes and Sherlock is coming for the second time that night, his arse convulsing around John's cock and knot. The sensation is too much and he climaxes deep inside his partner.

When he moves to withdraw Sherlock's hands on his hips stop him, demanding him to stay, lock their bodies together and with a swiftness that surprises even him, he changes their position and arranges Sherlock without ever slipping out so that they are chest to chest.

Sherlock's head flops down onto John's shoulder and they breathe in the smell of their mixed scents. John pulls Sherlock closer, craving more skin to skin contact and Sherlock wraps his arms around his neck, holding on tightly.

John kisses Sherlock's neck and whispers, "I love you" because it is true and he doesn't need to hear the detective saying it back to know the feeling is mutual.

Sherlock withdraws a little and their eyes meet and John knows he is right. Sherlock closes the distance between them and kisses him passionately and it is a perfect moment because it is also uniquely Sherlock.

They doze off like this, bodies knotted together, chest to chest and incredibly sated.

xXx

Their next case earns them the most publicity. After Scotland Yard received an anonymous tip concerning a long-lost painting of William Turner, Greg tasks them with its retrieval.

Why Sherlock took the case is a mystery to John; there was nothing to go on except the anonymous tip yet somehow, the detective was intrigued enough to warrant a two week adventure across Britain, investigating black markets and high society gatherings.

Sherlock's heat strikes somewhere in Cardiff and it costs them two days, not that John minds too much. After all, it's just a painting.

In the end, they discover a large ring of smugglers who wanted to sell the painting to the highest bidder. Sherlock deduces that the anonymous tip stems from a bidder at the auction who lost to someone prepared to spend more.

Sherlock is thrumming with energy when he and John unveil the painting after the criminals have been knocked out and bound to conveniently located pipes in the basement of the old warehouse, because naturally the smugglers would chose an old warehouse, John muses with a smile.

"This is exquisite," Sherlock whispers as his eyes rake across the canvas. To John, it looks like a scene from a pirate film. One group of people is attacking a ship, slitting men's throats, while the rising sun drowns the sky in a bloody red. All is done in a strange style which seems to emphasise the landscape more than the characters.

"What is it?" John asks eventually. He never had much of a thing for art and couldn't distinguish expressionism from romanticism.

"Omegas Rising. It's believed to have been destroyed by the government after Turner presented it since it shows Omega slaves revolting against British rule. Apparently, someone saved it and hid it for almost 200 years."

"So that's why they wanted to sell it now? With the new laws and such?"

"Obviously. If caught, they wouldn't have had to fear to be hanged for treachery."

Sherlock's eyes are still on the painting so John produces his mobile to give Greg the good news.

xXx

When the medial backlash eventually dies down, John is incredibly relieved. More than once over the past few weeks he wished for a way to turn back time and stop Sherlock from ever taking that case.

Alpha John Watson and Omega Sherlock Holmes finding a lost piece of Reformist art was the topic of every newspaper and talk show for two straight weeks and then again a few days ago when the Tate Britain unveiled it for visitors to see. With heavy security in place, of course, since a few Traditionalist fundamentalist still abound in London and they might just try to send a message by stealing or destroying that painting.

Sherlock is forever the Rising Hero in the eye of the public and even John is asked for autographs when he shops for groceries.

"Why don't you reap the benefits?" Greg asks that night. The DI is in a very good mood since Judy came clean about her affair and begged for forgiveness which he granted. "Go on a few shows, give interviews, take their cash. I bet they're offering quite a bit."

John shudders at the thought. "I'm a soldier, Greg, not a politician. And Sherlock won't be bothered by such tedious stuff as interviews."

"Well, my luck, isn't it then? I was afraid you'd let me solve my cases alone and start catering to all those offering you more money for your help."

"That would never happen, at least as long as your problems are still the most fascinating."

"Cheers to the criminals of London for their innovation, right?" Greg quips, rising his pint and they clink glasses.

xXx

After they solve their next big case, Sherlock is so euphoric that he pushes John against their apartment door, devours his mouth and then proceeds to shed their clothing at staggering speed.

He all but shoves John into the armchair, which is easier accessible than the sofa and climbs into his lap immediately. They are both naked and hard and John can positively smell Sherlock's hole leaking.

The next thing he knows it that Sherlock sinks onto his cock, taking him in without any preparation, only the slick provided by his body easing the way. Sherlock bites his lower lip and John pulls him down so he can lick into his mouth.

He lets Sherlock set the pace which is brutal and Sherlock is wild above him, throwing his head back and working off the adrenaline of the case in a way that leaves John breathless, fingers digging into the armrests.

John faintly hears Sherlock's mobile ring but neither of them cares as John tilts his hips which makes his cock hit Sherlock's prostate at ever movement.

John's phone rings next and they ignore it just as well; he doubts that Sherlock even perceives the noise in the state he is in, beautiful and feral and incredibly erotic.

John palms Sherlock's erection in time with the Omega's thrusts and soon Sherlock can't decide whether to fuck himself on John's cock or to thrust into his hand, so John sits up and takes over, thrusting upwards into Sherlock, keeping the angle and increasing the rhythm of his hand and within minutes, Sherlock is arching his back and shooting his come all over John's chest.

Sherlock, still coherent even post-coital, never allows their movements to falter and leans forward, licking his own seed of John's chest, gazing up at him through long lashes and swallows.

That's it, John comes undone, spilling himself into Sherlock's body. He focusses on willing his knot down as Sherlock slumps into him, panting hard.

Then, the doorbell rings.

"Go away!" Sherlock shouts.

"They can't hear you downstairs…" John remarks but Sherlock snorts derisively.

Suddenly, they hear voices - Mrs Hudson must have opened the door and before John and Sherlock can move, footsteps John identifies as Greg's sound from outside the door.

"Greg, don't enter!" John calls out, hoping that Greg will listen.

The steps pause on top of the steps. "Do I want to know why?"

"We have just engaged in carnal activities and are lacking sufficient clothing to welcome respectable members of the Yard into our flat," Sherlock explains loudly.

Someone sniggers outside.

"Bollocks, he's not alone," John groans, burying his head in Sherlock's shoulder.

"Could you please, uh, remedy the clothing situation and open the door once you are decent? It's really urgent."

"Give us a minute!" John calls back.

"Why can't they just go away?" Sherlock asks, sounding like a petulant child rather than an adult detective with an IQ well over 150.

"Because there is a case and they need their Rising Hero, so climb off, now."

"Imagine if you'd have knotted me. They'd been standing outside for thirty awkward minutes."

John chuckles at the thought. "I'm sure Mrs Hudson would have made them tea." Then he raises an expectant eyebrow at Sherlock who is still on top of him, with John's cock still in him.

"I don't want to climb off," Sherlock explains. "Can't you knot me now, give us an excuse?"

"We can hear you, you know!" Donovan's voice comes through the door and they both lock eyes for a second before they burst out laughing.

It takes a while until they calm down again and then they are still chuckling.

"Sherlock, a government agent has been partially skinned. We need you there as soon as possible."

Greg's comment receives the wanted reaction. Sherlock stills, sobering up in the blink of an eye, then is off John and into his trousers in record time. John has just closed his belt but is still missing his shirt when Sherlock opens the door with a suave, "Now why couldn't you have lead with that."

Donovan raises an appreciative eyebrow when she catches sight of John's bare chest and abs.

"Donovan, please don't ogle my partner. And rest assured that the sex was spectacular."

John splutters, blushing furiously, and retrieves his shirt as quickly as he can from the floor.

Greg grimaces, closing his eyes. Donovan smirks, not at all cross.

John, buttoned up and less flushed, steps closer. "So, now what is the problem?"

"A man with the skin taken off his right arm, that's the problem. Grab your coats and come on." Greg waits for an affirmative nod from John and descends the stairs again. Donovan lingers until Sherlock growls and shoos her out the door, coat in hand.

John takes a moment to process how this has become his life and follows obediently.

xXx

Greg leads them to the top floor of an office building with view of the Thames. The top three floors are under construction, which explains why the body has only been found today on Tuesday night by the security guard who took the time to sweep the entire building.

"The construction workers are currently located two floors below this one; that's why no one found the body," Greg explains as he leads them around a pillar.

John sees Sherlock open his mouth, probably to argue with Greg's assumption, yet the words die in his throat when they glimpse what exactly Greg meant by "skinned".

The victim is strapped to a surgical chair with special rests for his arms and legs. The man, an Alpha, is naked and bloodied but the worst sight is his right arm which is void of skin from the fingertips up to the shoulder.

It looks like something straight out of Body Worlds which John never visited since he has seen his fair share of people's innards in Afghanistan and the Revolution.

Sherlock, unsurprisingly, is looking at the body in awe and approaches it, circles around the corpse to take stock for a moment before he looks expectantly up at Greg. Sherlock's lips are threatening to curl into a smile and John hopes for everyone's sanity that this is not going to happen.

"James Sterling, 43, Alpha, government agent. We have trouble receiving more intel on him and whether he has been missing, but Anderson estimates time of death occurred about 24 hours ago."

"Cause of death?" John asks.

"Isn't it obvious?" Donovan asks back, her face rather green.

"Not particularly," John tells her and steps closer, inspecting the incisions, the clamps which suppress blood flow, the myriad of wounds on the body. "Whoever did this has to have medical training; the murderer took great care that the victim didn't die from the skinning."

Sherlock doesn't say anything, but his eyes sparkle with praise.

"I've got to concur." Anderson, in full forensic gear, appears from behind another pillar. "The victim's oesophagus lining is damaged and he has particular bruising around the stomach area."

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the officer as if seeing him for the first time. "Are you indeed suggesting the man has been tortured by means of the water cure, Anderson?"

"Obvious," Anderson bites back in a uncannily accurate imitation of Sherlock's own catchphrase.

"Water cure?" Greg asks, looking from Sherlock to his officer to John who volunteers an explanation.

"Forced ingestion of large quantities of water. The bruising means the attacker beat him around that area to ensure he vomits the water back up. I saw one case in Afghanistan; the soldier was healthy but the water cure screwed up his electrolyte balance and cost him his life since we didn't have the medicine to deal with the problem; and even then he might have still died."

Silence falls, only interrupted by the sound of Sherlock's steps as he inspects the room and the body.

"Christ, why can't the killers just use a bloody gun?" Greg groans, shaking his head.

"Because this particular killer had a personal relationship to the victim or at least to something he had done," Sherlock supplies, probably not identifying the rhetorical question for what it is or simply ignoring it.

"What do you mean?"

"One; this took a great deal of preparation, not only finding the location but gathering the surgical equipment which would have been necessary. Two; the murderer focussed on the right arm and shoulder which has to be relevant to the motive. Three; it might have been sexually motivated since the Alpha has been forced to knot after which the killer attached a cock ring, keeping both knot and cock erect which must have been incredibly painful."

"Theories?"

Sherlock glances at the victim's face. "You said he is a government agent but you haven't received more information on his occupation?" Greg nods. "I doubt you will receive anything substantial; he probably was SIS."

"What?!"

But before Sherlock can dive into his condescending monologue about how he deduced this particular detail, John asks Greg for the victim's ID. The DI hands the evidence bag to him and John snorts.

"His ID says Universal Exports. He isn't merely SIS, he is MI6."

"And you know this, how?" Donovan's eyebrows threaten to disappear underneath her hairline.

John hands Greg the evidence back. "I consult in military affairs. You pick up a few things about how the SIS operates."

"Don't forget the fact that Bhabha asked you to join," Sherlock adds with a smirk.

Greg's eyes widen and John tries to communicate that he wasn't at liberty to tell his friend anything about it and that Sherlock, that bastard, of course knew it the moment John returned from that particular meeting.

The DI shakes his head and sighs. "So we have a dead MI6 operative on whom we won't get any intel and who has been tortured and skinned as a part of what, revenge?"

"So it would seem at this time," Sherlock states. John can tell by the excited tension in his partner's body that this one will be a hard case to crack.

"Well, I can tell you right now that we won't get any more information on SIS employees; not if I go through the proper channels." Greg pointedly looks at John.

Of course, the Secret Service will deny all affiliations to James Sterling, if that even is his real name, after his death and it won't make a different if a simple yet renowned DI asks. John Watson however, might.

"We'll pay them a visit tomorrow," John agrees and he drags Sherlock off with him, given that they need the autopsy results as soon as possible and all Sherlock will accomplish is delay the process.

xXx

Sherlock invites himself along to Greg and John's trip to the MI6 headquarters and it only takes an hour and a half to be allowed into the office of the woman in charge who seems deeply moved by the death of her agent if one believes Sherlock's deduction.

She agrees that MI6 will provide a slightly less censored version of the classified files on James Sterling provided the case stay absolutely secret and doesn't land on the front page of the Sun and provided that the Met doesn't receive copies of the files.

Sherlock is annoyingly smug on the cab ride back to their flat where they tackle the files.

Hours and a lot of swearing at blackened paragraphs later, they have several leads which mostly involve family members of criminals James Sterling eliminated in the line for duty.

It is late but they set out for the Met nevertheless to present their finding to Greg and retrieve the autopsy results.

xXx

Richard Lubitsch is a competent operative and a deadly opponent. That is, if he isn't highly intoxicated after leaving his brother's birthday party.

Well, that's what he tells himself later, when he picks himself and his dignity up from the pavement where the thug shoved him onto.

He lives only a few streets from his brother, so naturally he walks home instead of hailing a cab. He can still walk and as it turns out, he can still break the nose of anyone who attacks him from behind.

That is, however, the limit of his abilities that night and the attacker slams him into a wall again, pressing the cold barrel of a gun against his head. Lubitsch waits for a sign of what the man - tall, muscled, black clothes, Beta, sunglasses - wants from him.

A moment later, when he can be sure the agent won't fight back anymore, he leans closer and whispers in his ear.

"I got a message for John Watson. If he wants to find his sister, he has to discover the Den of Inequity in Peckham. But he might not recognise who he finds there."

The thug shoves him to the ground and runs off before Lubitsch has a chance to stand up and find his balance. By the time he is ready to go after him, the attacker is nowhere in sight.

xXx

**End Notes:** The case of James Sterling inspired by the wonderful 00Q fic "Vita Mortis" by Marquestate and TABrown. If you like that pairing, please check out the story, it is worth your time. ( /works/659911/chapters/1203339). And no, this is not going to turn into a Bondlock crossover ;)

For those interested, I have posted the Sherlock Fandom Survey Results on my tumblr: survey-results


	11. Reconstruction 5 - Missing Sister Found

**Chapter 5 – Missing Sister Found**

**Summary: **When Lubitsch comes to John with news about his sister, John is ready to leave in seconds. Sherlock, however, is more concerned with the case at hand.

**Author's Notes: **I spent a lot of time looking for brothel names... "The Quivering Hills" almost made the list ;)

The name "Yuri Kapov" taken from the movie 2012, fyi. I liked the name. And the film!

xXx

A newspaper slides across the table and comes to a halt at Mycroft's elbow. One look suffices to discern the front page is filled with yet another picture about his brother.

"Making quite a name for himself," Yuri Kapov comments. Kapov is in charge of Mycroft's prison block and thankfully a covert traditionalist. Mycroft would have had to endure real, menial labour instead of quiet work in the library if it weren't for this man.

"What did he do this time? Save another millionaire?" Mycroft asks, his voice deliberately bored. In reality he is glad Kapov decided to keep him informed. The career his brother manages to have with the help of John Watson is quite remarkable.

"No. Found some old painting. You should read it."

Mycroft scans the article, unfolding the newspaper, intrigued. Yuri usually never advises him to read anything.

He skims the article, noting how highly the press speaks of his brother (the "Rising Hero", they call him), and proceeds to page four where it continues. There, at the bottom of the page, is Yuri's cyrillic scrawl. Pencil, easily erased.

Mycroft reads the sentence and his heart rate increases. He hands Pakov the newspaper back with a smile who then leaves the library and allows Mycroft to go back to his work.

He can't fathom it is happening. Months of planning and finally a sign of hope.

_I contacted my friend. He is willing to help._

xXx

Wednesday morning - alright, it's rather noonish - Lubitsch wakes up with one hell of a headache and hangover. He still has another day of leave before he needs to report back to the office and he knows just how to spend it.

He uses every database available to him at MI5, calls a few contacts and by the end of the day, has gathered enough intel so he can take the tip to his boss as a legit case.

Mr Mulcahy raises an eyebrow when he finds Lubitsch in his office, but doesn't say anything. Mulcahy led Reformist troops into battle in the civil war and fought side by side with Lubitsch on many occasions during Captain Watson's capture. Unlike the doctor, Mulcahy didn't turn down a promotion to an SIS operative, now commanding the MI5 - and Lubitsch.

"You look like a man with a mission, operative."

"Yes, sir. You'll find I make a compelling case." He explains as succinctly as possible about the tip he received and his research, demanding the institution of a task force under Captain Watson's command to retrieve his sister and free any other victim they manage to find.

Mulcahy knows just as well as Lubitsch that once John hears his sister's name, he will be on board, no matter what his mate and he are up to.

"If Watson agrees, the mission is a go. But one word to the press and you'll be manning a desk for a month, Lubitsch."

"Thank you, sir." He nods and hurries out of the office and goes looking for a cab to take him to Captain Watson.

xXx

"Sherlock, do you really think it's a good idea to hack SIS servers?"

"Please. We need information and we need it fast. Going through the channels is tedious."

John wants desperately to object but he knows his complaints will fall on deaf ears, so he puts down his half-raised hand and goes to make tea in the kitchen.

The doorbell rings as he pours the water and John hurries up since Sherlock can't even be bothered with opening the door when he is not hacking government sites.

The sight of one Richard Lubitsch, dressed in an immaculate suit and looking years younger than he had when they had fought side by side, is a complete surprise.

"John," he greets him, his lips not quite smiling. Something must be up or else Lubitsch wouldn't appear on his doorstep in the middle of the morning.

"Rick, this is unexpected. Come on in."

They mount the stairs and Sherlock turns around in his chair at the living room desk when they enter.

"Sherlock, you remember Sergeant Lubitsch. Although, it's agent now, isn't it?"

The former soldier nods and smiles pleasantly at Sherlock. "Nice to see you again, sir."

Sherlock merely narrows his eyes, ignoring the social nicety. "What happened?"

John sighs and shoots Lubitsch an apologetic look. "Can I offer you a cup of tea?"

"Thanks, but this is rather urgent."

John's muscles tense immediately and his right hand twitches even though his Sig is not at his back but safe on the mantelpiece of the fireplace.

John motions to the sofa and Lubitsch takes a seat, John claiming the armchair but staying on the edge of his seat, intrigued by the air of mystery Lubitsch projects.

"I received a tip about your sister's whereabouts, John."

His heart stops. It literally misses a beat for a second and then it jumps into his throat.

"Harry?"

It has been years, decades even, and a part of him has always feared she is long dead.

"Yes. The man told me she can be found in the Den Of Inequity in Peckham. But… That you might not recognise her anymore."

John takes a supposedly calming breath yet his heart rate doesn't falter. "I take it you did some research on the matter?" His voice is firm, of which John is strangely proud.

Lubitsch nods. "The Den of Inequity is the name of a ring of illegal brothels. As far as I could gather, they have emerged after the civil war led to a ban on prostitution and especially on a ban of turning Omegas into sex slaves."

John can feel his stomach drop. Harry. A sex slave.

He swallows hard. "Do we have confirmation of her whereabouts?"

"No, sir. The Dens are incredibly hard to find since they operate like a secret society. However, I have a contact who is positive he can get two agents in undercover to scout the location and find out if your sister is truly being kept in Peckham."

"You have clearance?"

"Yes. You are to head the task force which I will gather today. We can make contact as soon as tonight. Mulcahy signed off on the mission, provided you lead it."

John is on his feet within a second and has his gun in hand after another. "Alright. Give me a few minutes to pack and we can leave right now."

"What?" comes Sherlock's voice from the desk and John realises he almost forgot his partner is there. "You're leaving now?"

"Yes."

"But we have a case!" Sherlock sounds incredulous, genuinely appalled by this turn of events.

John can only stare at him, incomprehension clearly visible on his face.

"You can't leave now, we haven't found the murderer yet," Sherlock asserts, rising from his chair. Inconspicuously, Lubitsch takes a few steps back.

"Sherlock, it's my sister."

The detective shrugs. "If she is indeed a prostitute at the Den, then she will still be yours to rescue after we solved the Sterling case. The informant didn't deliver a deadline, did he?" He turns to Lubitsch who quickly shakes his head, but otherwise opts to stay out of the conversation.

John can feel anger rising inside his chest, a kind of anger he never felt, and it is directed at the Omega in front of him.

"Are you saying you expect me to keep you company while you hack into SIS servers to follow leads on some man who is already dead, instead of going after my sister whom I haven't seen for years?"

"There is no reason to get emotional, John-" Sherlock begins but John doesn't let him finish.

"Oh yes, it is! What the bloody hell are you thinking? This is about saving a life!"

"Yeah, yeah, establish contact, go in undercover, find out Harry is in there, storm the place and retrieve her; incredibly boring, don't you think? We have more pressing matters to focus on!"

"We don't, Sherlock! The investigation isn't even on the records, Christ!" John's voice rises unwillingly yet he can't find it in him to care.

Sherlock regards him for a moment. "You really are set on leaving now."

"Yes, brilliant deduction, detective, brilliant as ever. Now, you can either follow me upstairs and pack your bag or you can shut up and focus on more pressing matters." John spits out the last three words with enough venom to poison a snake.

Sherlock's eyes widen for a second but before John can see if he reacts in any other way, he is already through the door and on his way to their bedroom. Within minutes, he has a bag ready and re-enters the realm of awkward silence.

Sherlock hasn't moved and John can't believe his partner is so cold-hearted when it comes to John's family.

"You're being completely unreasonable, John," Sherlock says. "You can't leave in the middle of a case."

John glares at him. "Contrary to some people, I do have a heart." He grabs his coat, nods at Lubitsch and storms out, not sparing Sherlock another glance.

His heart clenches when he slides into the cab which Lubitsch has asked to wait. He never thought Sherlock would leave him to do something like this alone.

He thought Sherlock cared for him as deeply as John does for Sherlock.

Perhaps, he was a little too sure of himself after all.

xXx

John is still seething inside when they reach MI5 headquarters where the rest of their team has already gathered.

"Sergeant Wilder," John greets his former soldier with a smile. "Great to see you again."

"My pleasure, sir."

Two more agents will come with them, John remembers training them. Karl and Brady are young and fast, apt at hand-to-hand combat.

Lubitsch establishes contact with his informant and they decided that John and Wilder will stake out the brothel; John, since he is the only one who will be able to identify Harry and Wilder because he has most experience in undercover missions.

John colours his hair black and receives a truly awful moustache to conceal his identity while Wilder shaves his stubble off. They are both Alphas nearing forty, business partners looking for a blushing Omega to shag. They have the money necessary to be allowed into the Den and the money necessary to pay for their services.

The first meeting with new clients, according to Lubitsch's source, is always just a conversation where the brothel owner explains the procedures that have to be followed to assure privacy and prevent detection.

John and Wilder find the Den easily once they have been told where to look and are greeted by a man who looks more like an accountant than a criminal - short, dark hair which is conventionally cut, an average suit, non-descriptive features, Alpha, in his mid-thirties.

"Good evening, gentlemen."

The man, Sebastian Wilkes, leads them into the building, gesturing as he speaks. The rooms are bare, as if no one is living here, as if nothing conspicuous is going on.

"This is the place where all your dreams become true, gentlemen. These rooms are just for show; the real fun begins here."

Wilkes stops over a Persian rug which stands out against the otherwise Spartan decor and kicks it back, revealing a trap door. Wilkes lets them in first and after passing through another hall, they reach - well, a strip club.

The room is surprisingly large; two bars are on either side of the room, small tables are scattered throughout the club, scarcely clad women and men, all so obviously Omegas, are dancing on poles.

"Welcome, to the real Den of Inequity," Wilkes announces. "This is the main room; watching only. If you want a private lap dance, take one of our slaves to the private rooms over here." Wilkes points to a door on their right, manned by wall of a bloke. "You pay the bouncer for the Omega's service. Now," Wilkes leads them further along the right side until they reach stairs leading further down.

"This leads to our, well, special offers. If you want more than just a dance, find your way down here. You can view the slaves, chose and book a room for any amount of time you wish. No permanent marks or injuries; if you hurt a slave so much that it won't be able to service other customers, you're paying for the time it is absent."

John tries to keep his distance from what the man is telling them but he feels more nauseous by the minute. Additionally, the place reeks of pheromones, which is in no way helping.

"There is no chance we might get lucky tonight already?" John asks, aiming for eager.

Wilkes smiles with fake sweetness. "No, I'm sorry. But we have to take your contact information, run some background checks, see if you are indeed worthy of our service. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course, you've got to do what you've got to do," Wilder acquiesces and Wilkes invites them to a drink at the bar furthest away from the staircase that leads to where, presumably, Harry is being kept.

They provide the boss with their fake identities - both with bulletproof backstories that will convince Wilkes they are to be trusted - and Wilkes engages them in small talk, explaining how he is an accountant (John barely holds back his snort) in real life but that this is his passion.

When they leave and are a fair distance away, John vomits into a bush.

"Now there, sir, I'd have thought you've seen much worse."

John spits onto the ground, grimacing at the taste. "That was war. This is… To think that my sister… Christ!" He kicks the dustbin near him so hard that it crashes into the house wall.

"We're in now, sir. We'll find her and we'll safe her, and take these plonkers down while we're at it."

John forces a smile, then continues walking in the direction of their meeting point with Lubitsch and the others.

xXx

John crashes at Lubitsch's place for the duration of the mission. It has nothing to do with the fight Sherlock and he had, John tells himself, and everything to do with maintaining cover. They can't be sure if the Den's owner won't have them followed.

For good measure, John and Wilder meet for lunch that day, talking about their non-existent business. It's fun, John has to admit, even if the prospect of finding Harry leaves behind a bitter aftertaste.

All day, John glances at his mobile, hoping that maybe, Sherlock will call, either to inform him of his progress in the Sterling case or to… apologise? Even to John, the thought sounds ridiculous.

John's MI5 issued phone rings at seven that evening while their task force is gathered in Lubitsch's bachelor pad.

"Mr Cummings? You have been approved," Sebastian Wilkes' voice informs him.

"Thank you so much. I'm looking forward to tonight."

Wilder receives the same call a few minutes later and the jovial mood shifts to wired concentration as they prepare for the next phase of their operation.

xXx

It takes all of John's self-control to keep his features even as he passes through rows and rows of cages, each one basically too small to house a human but the brothel doesn't seem to care. The smell is incredible, enticing, so purely Omega that John would probably have problems if he weren't so used to Sherlock's scent.

"What if I wanted to fuck an Omega in heat?" Wilder asks as they slowly make their way through the rows.

"No problem, sir," Wilkes replies smoothly, "we have appropriate medication for that. Most of our slaves are constantly in heat."

John shudders involuntarily. The strain on an Omega's body alone will leave permanent damage if this treatment is kept up over a longer period of time. John has seen first hand how withdrawal goes, having freed more sex slaves than he would like to remember.

A particular smell hits John's nose and he sniffs unnoticeably, trying to pinpoint the location. He steps closer to the cage and Wilkes stops, noticing John's distraction.

"Oh yes, isn't it exquisite? According to our source, this Omega has been a trained sex slave since it was twelve. Can you imagine what it can do to please you?"

John growls, though not because he finds the thought particularly enticing - the naked woman smells like family. It's Harry, it's his sister.

"My, my, aren't we eager. She is 100 pounds the hours, and so worth it."

John schools his expression and turns to Wilkes. "I'm sold. I'll take an hour. I'm sure I can extend that period, if the slave pleases me?"

"Of course, Mr Cummings."

Wilkes calls a guard who drags the Omega - Harry - out of the cage roughly. As far as John can see, she follows willingly.

"Enjoy." Wilkes smiles maliciously and guides Wilder further down the hallway. Their eyes meet and John tries to look reassuring, then nods at the guard to lead the way to their room.

The chamber looks like a motel. It's scarcely decorated with just the basics; a bed, a small bathroom to the left, a chest, probably holding toys, restraints, and much more.

"I will knock when the hours is up," the guard informs him, then leaves John alone with the woman, who is sitting on the edge of the mattress.

John approaches her tentatively, taking in her scent and every cell in his body screams that this is her, this is his sister, this is Harry who he hasn't seen for twenty-two years, ever since she was taken from them when she was twelve and John was sixteen.

"What's your name?" he asks, voice trembling.

"Harriet, sir." She keeps her head bowed and doesn't look him in the eye.

"How long have you been here?"

"I don't know, sir. A year, perhaps. But before, I have served a lot of Alphas. I have training, sir. I will not disappoint you."

She shifts her legs, deliberatively letting them fall open. She is naked, like all the other slaves John saw in the cages, and her body is a little dirty.

"How do you want me, sir?"

The lack of defiance in Harry's voice breaks John's heart and he moves closer, sits down next to her but with enough space between their bodies. Harry doesn't touch - apparently she needs to be given permission.

"Can you look at me?" he asks and she instantly obeys, her dark-blue eyes dull, not shining with life like John remembers. He wishes the moustache was gone, so she could see his face more clearly, but he can't take it off.

Harry looks at him, though her eyes aren't focussing. Probably, she has been trained to keep her head out of the proceedings, or she has adapted like this for herself.

John tries again. "Please, look at me. Really look at me, Harry."

He nickname elicits a reaction - she blinks, her eyes suddenly sharper as they meet his own.

"John?"

"Yes, I've come-" But he stops when Harry starts shaking her head vehemently, suddenly trembling.

"No, no, you're not real, I'm dreaming again, I'm dreaming, don't be so stupid, Harry," she murmurs, over and over, her entire body shaking and John has no idea how to react, how to soothe her.

He reaches out, places his hand on her shoulder and she flinches violently.

"Sorry, master, sorry," she repeats, panic in her voice.

John knows he has to improvise, fast.

"Stand up, slave," he commands, without any idea how to snap Harry out of her episode otherwise. Her body goes rigid and after two seconds, she obeys.

"Sit down next to me. I want to hug you."

Harry follows his orders and lets him put his arms around her, pulling her close. He hopes his scent will tell her she isn't hallucinating, that he is real.

But why should she? She has been a slave longer than she was a child and never did John come to save her. Did she fantasise about it? Did she dream John would find her and rescue her?

John feels tears rise in his eyes. He did look for her. He was sixteen and clueless, hit dead end after dead end, was almost stabbed trying to get information on Harry, and when he was 18, he gave up. Mourned his sister and joined the military.

Now, he has a second chance and he will not waste it.

He spends the hour cuddling with Harry, tells her to relax, tells her he is not going to sleep with her tonight and like always, she obeys. She buries her face in the nape of his neck and it reminds him painfully of Sherlock.

Will John be allowed back into their flat? Or will John come home to packed bags and Mrs Hudson wanting back his key?

John hugs Harry closer, not wanting the hour to end.

xXx

"I hope the experience was satisfying?" Wilkes drawls as he slides into a seat next to John at the bar.

"Very. You've won yourself a new costumer, Mr Wilkes." John smiles. "My colleague is still enjoying himself?"

"He won't be long. Chose a beautiful slave a few minutes after you. Fresh meat, that one. Barely hit puberty."

John resists the urge to retch. Or punch Wilkes. He knows Wilder opted for the youngest because she might give him more information, but the image still sits uncomfortably in his mind.

Wilder joins them soon, smirking broadly. Wilkes buys them a celebratory drink but thereafter excuses himself to welcome a new customer.

The bar is too full for John and Wilder to engage in real conversation, so they empty their drinks quickly and head out, hail a cab and go back to their rendezvous point at Lubitsch's flat.

"It's Harry," is John's opening statement. "I doubt she will go willingly, though."

"Why?" Lubitsch looks up from the chessboard where Karl is apparently beating him epically.

"She thought I'm an hallucination. She's been trained too well. It won't be easy."

"Most of them will act like that," Wilder adds. "I got talking with a teenage girl - not even fourteen yet," he makes an angry noise, "and she told me that they're all trained when they get there. And who's not broken by that will yield to the mediations."

"What do they give them?" Karl asks, face contorted in disgust.

"Illegal stimuli, to keep them constantly in heat," Wilder explains, "and birth control. Some other drugs that make them pliant and willing."

"Our plan?" Brady rises from his chair. "Assuming we have one?"

John nods. "Wilder and I will go in tomorrow night. You all will be positioned outside and when you receive our signal, storm the Den. My priority will be to get Harry out of there; but we have to take down Wilkes and the employees as well to free the rest. It's going to be tricky and dangerous. I didn't see any guns but I doubt they're unarmed."

"Sounds good. Let's clarify the details." Lubitsch quickly puts the chessboard away, all too eager to destroy evidence of his failure to Karl's amusement, and they all sit down to devise a strategy.

xXx

Sherlock pours a single cup of tea and his body aches. The Omega in him yearns for his Alpha, for John, but he tries his best to ignore it. He needs to focus on the case; that's it. That's his priority.

The flat feels empty and Sherlock has spent the few hours of sleep his body claimed on the couch rather than the bedroom where everything smells even more of John.

He hears Greg's footsteps on the stairs and turns another page in the mission report.

"What's so important that it couldn't wait till tomorrow?" Greg asks, stepping closer.

"I have a suspect. I thought maybe you wanted to know. I remember you telling me to keep you informed."

Sherlock doesn't need to look up to know the DI is narrowing his eyes.

"I told John he should keep me informed. Where is John anyway?"

Sherlock opts for silence.

"Sherlock? Where is John?"

"On a mission."

"What mission?"

"To find his sister."

"Harry?" A surprised pause, then, "And why are you here and not with him?"

Finally, Sherlock decides to glance up, raising an eyebrow. "I have a case."

Greg stares, blinks once, twice. "You let John go looking for his sister alone, while you stayed here to solve the top secret case no one will know about once you've solved it?"

"Yes."

Forgoing to stay calm, the detective explodes. "Bloody hell, Sherlock! You're the daftest genius I've ever met! How could you stay here on a case when John could use your help to find the sister he hasn't seen in over twenty bloody years!"

Sherlock wants to give Greg the same answer he gave John, that he has a case and that he can't simply abandon everything, but this time, the reason sounds more like an excuse, lacking in cogency.

"That's what I thought," the DI comments, pacing now. "You know, Sherlock, when I first met John, I thought the two of you were only the result of your pheromones all over the place. But after everything, when he stayed - brilliant. A bloke who puts up with all your quirks, the body parts in the fridge, the experiments, your strange moods, who loves you so much he would die for you-" Greg points an accusing finger at Sherlock, "and you can't even say three little words to make him happy? And you can't abandon some puzzle that is of no consequence to national security or the likes of it, to be there for your mate when he needs you most?"

"We're not mated," Sherlock states. Being mates means forever, and Sherlock doesn't believe in forever. It's a completely illogical concept.

Greg merely snorts. "Keep telling yourself that, Sherlock. But not for too long - I doubt even John's patience is infinite. And you don't want to lose this bloke, believe me."

"Thank you for this passionate speech; now can we take a look at my prime suspect?" Sherlock deflects, fighting the urge to literally run far away from where the conversation has strayed.

Greg shakes his head. "Forget it. I'm not helping you in an investigation I have no clearance for anyway before you make things right with John."

The DI turns on his heels and is out of the door within the second, leaving Sherlock behind to contemplate.

John knows him, understands him; he is the only one who ever has. Sherlock doesn't need to say those three words Greg is apparently obsessed with (which is probably why he has one ex-wife and will be facing another divorce soon) because John knows how he feels. No words necessary.

John should have known Sherlock would want to finish the case. Perhaps they aren't as compatible as Sherlock thought.

The thought hurts and the Omega side of him protests, though Sherlock discards its protests as biologically conditioned responses to the absence of the Alpha whom he shared his heats with.

Bloody hell, he hasn't slept more than five hours these past two nights, he can't remember the last time he ate - he is in no condition to reflect on this.

With a groan, Sherlock runs his hands over his face and tries to focus on his prime suspect's file.

xXx

Yuri Kapov passes Mycrofts workplace slowly, at the same pace he usually watches over the inmates. Yet this time, when he come level with Mycroft's chair, he slips a key onto the table.

Ten minutes later, Mycroft punches out to take a cigarette break - well, in his case more of a cigar break - though instead of opening the door to the library break room, he skips it, aiming for the supply closet.

The lights of the surveillance cameras in the hallway are all blinking red - a coincidental malfunction.

Mycroft snorts mentally and unlocks the supply closet, slipping inside. He finds a guard uniform including an ID and quickly changes into the clothes.

He will walk out of Belmarsh prison without trouble and finally breathe the fresh air of freedom again.

xXx

The clock on the mantelpiece strikes ten in the morning when Sherlock has finally broken into SIS servers to retain the information on Freja Holgersson necessary to solve the case.

Yesterday, Sherlock came across one mission during which Richard Sterling was supposed to extract a corrupt Swedish general, Godmar Holgersson, whom Sterling shot after the mission went South, instead of saving him. Sherlock doesn't have all the information necessary to reconstruct what exactly happened in Sweden, though he is sure that Holgersson's daughter only needed the name of the man who shot her father.

Petty revenge. Freja might not be the only one with motive but she is the only suspect who is a trained surgeon and could have been able to torture and skin Sterling the way the Met found him.

Eager, Sherlock opens the file on Freja Holgersson and skims it until he reaches the very end.

Committed suicide after father's death in July 2011. Body found and identified by Swedish government.

Sherlock jumps up and kicks his chair in frustration. If Freja was killed in July 2011, she couldn't have skinned Richard Sterling in May 2012.

He grabs his violin, mind spinning. He has gone through every suspect, every angle, every possibility, however remote, and nothing - nothing - points to Sterling's killer.

Sherlock is halfway through Bach's Sonata No. 3 in C Major when realisation hits him like a bucket of ice water and his knees almost give out from under him.

It's a trap.

xXx

John and Wilder make their way downstairs without Wilkes' interference. The hallway holding the cages is U-shaped, manned by four guards. John proceeds to the far end of the floor, checks his watch.

Ten more seconds.

He considers the Omega in front of him, feigning interest.

Five.

The guard notices. Approaches.

Three.

Two.

One.

John moves with lightning speed, fuelled by pure adrenaline, snapping the guard's neck with a crack. John catches him and puts him down gently onto the floor.

He hears the second guard shout something, followed by rapidly nearing footsteps.

John draws his Sig and shoots with deadly precision, thankful for the silencer. The man drops to the ground and John rounds the corner, expecting to see Wilder and Harry in her cage.

Instead, there are five more guards blocking his way and John ducks back behind the wall as the first bullets fly past him, missing him by mere inches.

He produces a small-scale explosive, curtesy of MI5, and throws it as near to the wall opposite the cages as possible. The bang is loud and will have alerted the customers one floor above them but John hardly cares. MI5 has been notified; there is backup to catch anyone who tries to escape.

John flings himself around the corner, gun raised. He shoots one guard in the chest, ducks a bullet from the last one standing and is level with the man's feet. Two quick shots through his kneecaps hurl him to the ground, crying in agony. John kicks the gun away from his grasping hands and knocks him unconscious.

A glance at the other man shows he is already bleeding out. The three other guards fell victim to the explosive device and for a second, John's mind flickers back to Sherlock when he sees one man's intestines scattered on the floor.

John rounds the second corner carefully, gun raised.

What he sees forces the breath from his lungs. Wilkes is holding Harry tight, close to his body, a gun pointed at her head.

"Captain Watson, so nice of you to join us. I didn't expect five guards to be an obstacle for you."

"What do you want?" John grits out, gun still in hand.

"Give the gun to my accomplice, then follow me. You will be glad to know that none of your men were killed; merely injured."

John hesitates, thinking quickly, though it's no use. He can't attack without Wilkes shooting his sister.

So John relinquishes his Sig to the bloke John recognises as the one guarding the private rooms for the dancers and follows Wilkes up the stairs.

John takes his chance when he is on the last step. It may be an act of desperation but it's his only option.

With two quick blows he regains control of his gun and knocks the bloke out, then fires two more shots at the two men keeping watch over his bound colleagues and finally aims the gun at Wilkes, who looks stunned yet is still smiling faintly.

"You think that will change anything, Captain Watson?" He adjusts the grip on Harry, pulling her in front of his torso like a shield.

"What do you want?" John barks, feeling the panic rise in his chest. Harry looks so frightened and confused.

"Why don't you drop the moustache, eh? Show your sister who is responsible for her death."

John growls but rips off the fake beard, searching to catch Harry's eye and see her reaction. She stiffens suddenly in Wilkes' arms.

"That's right, pet. Your brother. The hero of the revolution; only he couldn't be bothered to safe you, could he?"

"What do you want?" John asks again, more urgent this time. "Don't you dare kill her."

Wilkes laughs out loud, an eerie sound in the empty bar. "Kill her? She's already dead inside. No, John, this isn't about her. This is about you."

"Then let her go!"

"You shouldn't be pointing weapons or my finger might just slip…"

With a feral growl, John throws the gun to the ground, glaring at Wilkes. The weapon slides across the floor a little, coming to a halt near Wilkes' feet. "Let her go."

"So you can charge at me and perhaps get away with nothing more than a scratch? I don't think so."

John remains silent, staring at Wilkes, waiting for him to go on, to shoot, anything.

"You see, John, I'm under orders. Moriarty says hi."

And before John can process the meaning of Wilkes' words, the Alpha points the gun at him and pulls the trigger.

xXx

**End Notes:** As an apology for the long wait (and because of the cliffhanger), I'll be uploading the next chapter right after this one :)


	12. Reconstruction 6 - An Apology

**Chapter 6 – An Apology**

**Summary: **Wilkes pulls the trigger but the bullet never hits John.

**Author's Notes: **This is the second upload today so** make sure you read chapter 5 first!**

xXx

The gun clicks, no shot ringing out.

John freezes in a moment of tense surprise until a movement grabs his attention. From behind the bar to their right, Sherlock appears, wearing a self-satisfied smirk.

John's heart stutters for the split of a second. He came. Sherlock came.

"I've always known your intellect to be lacking, Sebastian. Any man used to handling guns would have noticed the difference in weight. But then, you've always been a pacifist, haven't you?"

"Holmes," Wilkes snaps with enough venom to poison an elephant. "What the hell?"

"I emptied your magazine. Only an idiot leaves his gun unattended for even a second, especially when he plans on taking out a highly decorated Captain that same evening."

With a grunt, Wilkes throws the gun to the floor but his grip on Harry doesn't loosen. John sees how Wilkes shifts his weight – he is up to something.

Suddenly, Wilkes bows down, snatching up John's Sig though before he has a chance to aim, John is on him, trying to wrestle the gun out of his grip without hurting his sister in the process.

John crashes Wilkes' hand onto his thigh with all the force he can muster, trying to dislodge the gun but a shot is released, ringing out loudly in the room before Wilkes drops the weapon.

"John!" Sherlock calls out, sounding worried, but John doesn't stop to see if he is injured. With a few strikes, he renders Wilkes unconscious and his grip on Harry finally slacks.

Yet, as John's eyes snap to his sister, all he sees is red. The bullet hit her in the thigh; now blood is running down her naked skin.

"Shit!" John throws his suit jacket off, then rips his shirt open and presses it on the wound. Harry cries out in pain. "Harry, Harry, listen to me! It's just a leg wound; you're going to be alright. I'll take you to the hospital. You're safe now, Harry. You're safe."

He bandages the wound as well as possible with his shirt, then grabs his jacket and gently eases Harry's arms through it. She is in shock; her eyes open and unseeing, her muscles tense.

Once she is haphazardly covered, he scoops her up in his arms. Sherlock, meanwhile, must have freed Lubitsch and the other three agents, for they are on their feet again.

"Someone call an ambulance," John orders and he waits long enough for Karl to produce his mobile before he makes his way up the stairs.

He waits just inside the front door, not wanting to expose Harry to the cold night air outside. The ruffle of a coat announces Sherlock's arrival but John doesn't turn, unwilling to face whatever awaits him when he meets Sherlock's eyes.

"Is she going to be alright?" Sherlock asks softly.

"Do you care?" John snaps back, too riled up to rein in his emotions that are suddenly all over the place, now that he is holding his sister in his arms and she is so light that he doesn't even feel a strain in his arms.

Sherlock takes a deep breath. "I care about you, John."

"Well, I'm fine, so thanks for saving the day."

He hears Sherlock swallow. "It was a trap. The Sterling case. There was no motive behind it other than to distract me, forcing you to walk into this alone."

The sound of a siren announces the ambulance's arrival.

John closes his eyes as the meaning of Sherlock's statement registers. "You're telling me you only came here because you solved the case?"

"I-"

"Don't, Sherlock. I'm in no mood for your logic."

Without glancing at the Omega, John elbows the door open, and meets the medics.

xXx

A strange air of melancholy settles over Sherlock that he has never experienced before. He can't will it away and it drives him even madder than John's gruff behaviour.

Sherlock wants the softness to return to John's eyes, wants the Alpha to caress him again, kiss him, smile at him and the Omega inside of him longs for John's smell. He follows to the hospital - Lubitsch is kind enough to arrange for him to get there - where Sherlock finds John in the waiting room, staring into space.

His sister must be in surgery then, for the gunshot wound.

John doesn't react to his presence and when Sherlock yields to the impulse to reach out, John almost flinches and withdraws from him.

Sherlock stays, craving John's scent, waiting. He keeps his distance when a doctor comes to talk to John and when he walks off to Harry's room a little while later.

Sherlock enters briefly, yet the glare John shoots his way suffices to make Sherlock leave the room again. Instead, he takes up residence on a chair and waits.

He dozes off at some point and the early hustle and bustle of the hospital rises him. Sherlock contemplates his next course of action - simply entering the room again won't do. So he follows the signs to the cafeteria and buys John tea and a croissant. John loves them but hardly ever indulges himself.

When Sherlock enters, he notices that John has moved his chair into the far left corner of the room, right next to the window; presumably to give the doctors and nurses some room to operate.

Sherlock places the cup and the small paper bag with the pastry on the table next to John's chair and takes a seat in the second chair. He inhales the smell of disinfectant, laced with Alpha pheromones and his body relaxes for a fraction.

"She's malnourished and dehydrated," John explains after an endless stretch of silence. "The X-ray shows a few healed fractures from years of abuse and they're keeping her sedated for the withdrawal from the heat catalysts."

Sherlock swallows around the lump in his throat. John is hurting and he longs to soothe his Alpha but John's body language is dismissive; he clearly wouldn't welcome any contact.

"Do you need anything?" Sherlock asks instead.

John doesn't meet his eyes. "I need to be alone with my sister."

Sherlock nods even though John probably can't see him, then rises. "That's tea and a croissant. You should eat."

It is a strange reversal of their usual roles, he muses, and he believes he sees the corners of John's mouth twitch before he turns and leaves the room.

He makes his way to the cafeteria to get himself some tea. A newspaper catches his attention - the front page sports a large picture of John, carrying his jacket-clad sister out of the Den, all underneath the headline "_CAPTAIN WATSON SAVES LONG-LOST SISTER - PROSTITUTION RING EXPOSED!_"

Brilliant. Utterly brilliant.

The media attention does nothing to improve Sherlock's mood and as it turns out, matters are about to become even worse for in the later morning hours, Homi Bhabha himself appears to visit John and to hold a press conference.

Sherlock keeps his distance at both, watching Bhabha talk about traditionalist inclinations gone too far, about criminals that refuse Omegas their basic human rights this society fought so hard for, about how the government would show no mercy and persecute according to the newly established laws, how the brave actions of Captain Watson and his comrades saved over forty Omegas who will now receive medical as well as psychiatric attention.

Sherlock doubts Harry Watson will ever be the same again. If she has indeed been a slave for over twenty years as Greg suggested, she will have internalised the principles of slavery far too deeply as to transition back into society within a short period of time. If she manages to do so at all.

He wants to point this out to John yet somehow he fears John might be angered by this simple fact.

"Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock turns towards a young Omega - mid-twenties, spent her life in slavery, freed after the Fall, enjoys her freedom, cat-owner - and raises an eyebrow.

"The Minister would like a word with you."

Intrigued, Sherlock nods and follows the blonde woman. Bhabha meets him in an empty conference room with a pained smile.

"Mr Holmes, I'm sorry we meet again under such dire circumstances."

"Prime Minister." Sherlock shakes the proffered hand only because Bhabha took his side and has been a loyal friend of John's for the past years.

"I've already spoken to John; I do hope his sister makes a fast recovery."

"Considering the circumstances that hope is rather optimistic."

Bhabha huffs. "True, but who are we if we can't believe that tomorrow will bring a better world?"

Sherlock has no answer to this platitude.

"I'm afraid I have another piece of information, Mr Holmes." Bhabha sighs and Sherlock can tell that something grave has transpired, though nothing prepares him for the Prime Minister's next words. "As it appears, your brother has escaped from Belmarsh prison."

Sherlock splutters embarrassingly for a brief moment. "How?"

"We are not yet certain though we suspect he had quite a lot of help from the inside."

"Do you want me to investigate?"

Bhabha shakes his head. "No; at least not until our own resources fail to produce results. Yet if Mycroft Holmes tries to contact you, do inform us immediately."

"I doubt he will since I am the reason he was in custody in the first place," Sherlock points out, "though I will tell you in case he chooses to come forward."

"Thank you," Bhabha says and it sounds sincere. Well, as sincere as a politician can be. "But now I must depart; John's discovery has caused a minor uproar in the Omega community as to why the government failed to expose the Den of Inequity sooner."

Sherlock nods and watches the Prime Minister disappear with the blonde Omega. A glance at the clock on the wall tells him it is past noon, so Sherlock picks up a sandwich from the cafeteria as an excuse to visit John again.

The Alpha looks more amenable to his presence already and takes the food immediately.

"Bhabha sought me out," Sherlock tells him, earning a questioning look. "It would seem that Mycroft has escaped from prison."

"What? Why? How?" John tenses, food forgotten in his hand. "Will he try to take revenge?"

"I highly doubt it. Mycroft has never been one to hold petty grudges."

"You brought down his empire. I bet he wouldn't call that petty."

Sherlock snorts, chest warming up at the sound of something akin to their usual banter. "No, he will either have left the country by now or won't until the government stops suspecting him at airports. He has powerful contacts in Europe, from before the civil war. He won't be found unless he wants that to happen."

John considers him for a moment, then seems to decide to take his statement at face value.

"How long will you be staying here?" Sherlock asks tentatively.

"As long as it takes."

"For her to wake?"

"Yes."

Instead of explaining how utterly sentimental that is since Harry is in a medically-induced coma, Sherlock says, "You'll need clothes. Your laptop. Perhaps a book. I'll fetch them."

John's eyes narrow in surprise but other than that, the Alpha doesn't react so Sherlock leaves for 221B Baker Street.

Outside the hospital, he is accosted by the press, the reporters following him to their flat even though he refuses to comment. He grabs what he knows to be John's favourite and most comfortable clothes, his laptop, its charger as well as the one to his phone and the stack of books from John's nightstand, then repeats the tedious process of fighting his way through reporters one more time.

When he opens the door to Harry Watson's room, he finds Greg sitting in the chair next to John, speaking in hushed tones.

"I brought the things you needed." Sherlock is stating the obvious but he has no idea what else to do. The entire situation is beyond him; John's behaviour is completely unsettling at a much more biological level, upsetting the Omega inside Sherlock.

"Just put them down somewhere," John orders, briefly glancing his way and then resolutely focussing his eyes back on his unconscious sister.

Greg sighs and gets to his feet. "Good luck, mate. Come on Sherlock, I'll walk you out."

Sherlock follows willingly. Perhaps Greg has a better grasp on the situation.

"I'm lost," he opens once the DI has closed the door behind them. "I can't deduce what he needs me to do so he can forgive me."

Greg looks dubious. "Are you saying you were wrong?"

"No. Though I might have been selfish."

"You should apologise."

"Will that make him forgive me?"

"Won't hurt."

"Greg." Their eyes meet and the DI's eyes grow soft around the edges.

"Alright, I'll throw you a bone. In my opinion, just keep doing what you're doing. Be there. Apologise. Bring him tea and food. Show him you care."

"He knows I care."

"Does he?"

"I'm sure he told you."

Greg sighs heavily. "I'm guessing he has doubts after what happened. Good luck."

Without any other explanation, the DI leaves Sherlock alone with his thoughts.

xXx

Mycroft is a man with many contacts. He always kept an open mind about those he associated with and while his colleagues shied away from more violent contemporaries, Mycroft opted to pursue even them.

A wise decision, as it turns out when he is a fugitive and a criminal in the eyes of the government.

He seeks out Nikolai Luzhin shortly after he escapes prison and slides into the black limousine parked outside Nikolai's boss' favourite restaurant.

"Sir, this is not a taxi, I will have to ask you to leave," Nikolai tells him in his heavy Russian accent.

"Dobry wetschir," Mycroft greets him and their eyes would meet in the rearview mirror if both of them weren't wearing sunglasses.  
"Mr Holmes." The driver inclines his head.

"I need to call in a favour," Mycroft tells him in Russian. He always knew being friendly with the Russian mafia would pay off one day.

Indeed, not even an hour later he is sitting at a table with Sergei Mikhailov, leader of this particular group of criminals. Mikhailov, a tall, muscular man with deep lines from years of living in the shadows and too much cocaine, is an Alpha, just like his partner, Boris Yakov Arshavin, who looks marginally healthier despite the large scar splitting the right side of his face.

It is not uncommon for two Alphas to enter a relationship in Traditionalist circles where Omegas are considered nothing more than slaves to breed. This particular brand of traditionalism never held much appeal for Mycroft who knows that Omegas are much more than birth machines, yet he would never dream of engaging men like Mikhailov or Arshavin in political conversations.

"We knew you'd be coming," Mikhailov explains. "Kapov's friend is also our friend."

"Do you know why this friend has an interest in helping me?"

Arshavin smiles with too many teeth. "He has direct orders from the Kreml, Mr Holmes."

Mycroft raises an eloquent eyebrow, although he is sure that his Russian is good enough that he has not misunderstood the man.

"Moscow is interested in your services, Mr Holmes. They are prepared to give you political asylum and offer you a job."

"That is awfully generous of them. What might the catch be?"

"Don't forget, Mr Holmes," Mikhailov cuts in, "that you and the Russian Prime Minister shared a cordial relationship before the Reformists took over."

Cordial. Well, not quite the word Mycroft would have chosen but then Mikhailov doesn't quite share his vernacular. It is true, however, that under Mycroft's rule the British Empire and the Russian Union were working well together, not only politically but mostly economically speaking.

"I assume there is already a plan in place?"

"Of course. You will be taken to the Russian Embassy in London as soon as it is deemed safe. Our organisation will provide you with everything you need in the meantime."

"That is very generous, Mr Mikhailov."

"Please, call me Mikhas. All my friends do."

Mycroft resists the urge to snort. They are hardly friends - Mycroft simply allowed Mikhailov's "business" to continue as long as they kept their fingers off government properties. Taking down the mob would have been more trouble than it would have been worth.

"Thank you then, Mikhas."

"Can we do anything else for you, Mr Holmes?" Arshavin asks.

"My assistant, Anthea. She has been sentenced to twenty years in prison after the civil war. If I am indeed to rebuild my career abroad, she will be of tremendous help."

Mikhas raises his glass, smiling broadly. "Consider it done."

They clink glasses and Mycroft is unsure whether to be relieved or worried.

xXx

It takes a lot out of his pride to do as Greg suggested but the need to win John back overrides everything else. Sherlock brings him tea and supper without any superfluous comment, sleeps in the chairs of the waiting room again, then decided to apologise the next morning.

Sherlock enters the room with yet another cup of tea and two croissants this time. John only spares him a brief glance, nothing more, so Sherlock doesn't sit down.

He draws in a deep breath, readying himself. "I should have come with you and helped you find your sister, John. Insisting on working on the case was selfish and inconsiderate of me."

No answer, not even a nod. Sherlock leaves, glad for the books he brought for himself the day before. He brings John lunch as well and it goes much as this morning.

When he enters the room in the evening, though, John deigns him with a longer look, gesturing him to take a seat. Silence falls over them, enveloping them for a long time.

"I was sixteen when she disappeared, she was twelve," John says suddenly and Sherlock feels inexplicably grateful for the sound of his voice. "My parents weren't worried, said she probably eloped with some Alpha but I didn't believe it. Harry and I told each other everything. I spent two years looking for her but it was all in vain. One informant even stabbed me for asking too many questions. Eventually, I gave up, joined the army. I gave up on her, Sherlock. I'm afraid she will never forgive me for that. And I couldn't begrudge her if she stayed angry with me for the rest of her life."

Sherlock can't respond – he has never been the one supposed to comfort another person in distress. He stays, though, offering his presence and hopes it suffices.

John doesn't say more, never asks him to leave, so Sherlock stays until the following morning, dozing a bit in the night but mostly watching over John who wakes when the nurse enters to check on Harry's progress.

xXx

It takes John a few moments to gather his wits. The strain of the past days has dulled his senses and reflexes, though when the nurse addresses him he is again fully alert.

"The drugs are clearing out of her system nicely, Captain," she informs him. "We might be able to wake her in two or three days."

He nods his thanks, then watches her leave. His eyes land on Sherlock who is still sitting in the second chair.

"What are you still doing here?" John can't help asking. "I'm sure there are more important things that require your attention, aren't there? An experiment, perhaps? A case?" He can't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Sherlock has surprised him, if he is completely honest, though. Bringing him tea, being there… The detective makes it hard for John to be angry with him.

"You're more important, John," he replies, sounding so sincere that John almost believes him.

"Are you sure you're not simply saying that because you deduced it's what I want to hear?"

Sherlock looks upset suddenly, pained even. "No. These past days… I've missed you. I didn't want to miss you but the ache wouldn't go away. I –" suddenly, Sherlock jumps to his feet and starts pacing,"- damn it, John, I have no idea what I'm talking about! I've never experienced so many emotions at once and I can't find a way to detach myself from them! It's frustrating!"

John watches the outburst, his expression blank, curious where Sherlock is going with this. A large part of him wants to believe that Sherlock is not just saying what John wants to hear so he'll forgive him, that Sherlock is completely honest with his feelings for once.

"I…" Sherlock begins yet starts over. "Insisting on finishing the case was selfish. I was blind to your needs when I should have been supportive."

Sherlock's tone suggests he has reached the end of his deliberations and locks eyes with John. He has never seen the detective look so lost before, perhaps except for one day inside the Resistance headquarters which seems like a lifetime ago. The thought takes John back to the beginning, to his first impressions of the man he has grown to love.

"I doubt it's in your nature to be supportive, Sherlock."

"I can be. For you."

John can't stand the look in Sherlock's eyes anymore. He knows that if he stays, he will crumble underneath that stare; if he stays, he will fold, forgive Sherlock and take him back and nothing will have changed.

"Supportive isn't good enough. I need some air." He rises abruptly, aiming to pass by Sherlock but once he does, there is a hand on his wrist, stopping him. John turns to find blue eyes looking down at him desperately, raw with emotion.

"Don't go, John! I love you, don't go!" It comes out in a rush and John's widening eyes must have tipped Sherlock off to what just escaped his lips.

John watches as an array of feelings flicker across Sherlock's face - surprise, confusion, resolution - and then the Omega squares his shoulders and looks straight at him, gaze unwavering.

"Yes. I love you. I thought you knew, that it was obvious, but apparently I need to say it out loud for it to become real. I love you, John." A brief pause. "And I'm sorry."

It must have taken everything in Sherlock to express these sentiments, and to say he is sorry atop everything else. John knows deep inside that he is being sincere - this is not some form of manipulation. Sherlock isn't saying these things because he wants John's forgiveness. Sherlock is saying it because it is true.

John can't do anything but kiss him, deep and desperate, laden with emotion and Sherlock melts against him, grabs his shoulders and gives himself over to John with every cell of his body.

The Alpha inside of him purrs when he reunites with his Omega after such a long time apart. Almost the longest time they spent apart ever since they met, actually.

John would love to claim Sherlock right here and now but he remembers they are in a public place, so he steers Sherlock through the room and pulls him into his lap on one of the chairs.

Sherlock rests his head on John's shoulder and inhales deeply, baring his neck in the process and John accepts the invitation. He bites down hard and relishes the shudder that goes through Sherlock's body.

They stay there, scenting each other, basking in each other's presence, for what feels like forever and despite his sister's tragedy, John is happy with his arms wrapped around Sherlock.

It doesn't take more than half an hour before their mixing scents are enough to drive them mad with need.

"Let's take a break," John decides and Sherlock hums as a way of answering.

They have barely shut the door to 221B when they devour each other, ripping their shirts off, both starved for contact. John runs his hands across planes of pale skin, plays with Sherlock's nipples and teasingly cups his erection through his pants.

"Knot me, John," Sherlock growls which goes straight to John's already aching cock, then proceeds to shed the rest of their clothes as they climb the stairs to their bedroom.

"I want to taste you first," John says and pushes Sherlock face first onto the bed. He is on him immediately, mouthing Sherlock's pulse point for a moment while grinding his cock into the cleft of Sherlock's arse. His cock twitches when he feels the lubrication against his glans.

John shuffles lower and traces Sherlock's spine with his tongue, leaving behind a wet trail. His hands cup firm cheeks and pull them apart, revealing the puckered and shiny hole. John laps at it teasingly for a second before dipping his tongue inside, revelling in the taste of Sherlock. He presses his lips against the perineum eagerly, sucking lightly.

Sherlock moans, pushing back, trying to fuck himself on John's tongue but hands on his cheeks stop him as John drinks in the scent and the taste of Sherlock's body. He is aware that he spills slick everywhere, not managing to swallow everything. It's dirty and primal and John can't get enough.

"Please," Sherlock gasps, arching his back, grinding his erection into the mattress. "Take me, John, take me now!"

John was never able to resist it when Sherlock begs, so he pulls his tongue out and replaces it with his cock, thrusting in in one brutal motion. His knot is already swelling without John fighting it and he shoves in harder, making Sherlock feel it against his arse.

"Yes, knot me," he gasps, bearing down so wantonly that John can't deny him.

He is fully sheathed after a few more thrusts, then pushes Sherlock down into the mattress, covering his slim body with his own more muscular one. Sherlock moans appreciatively, unable to move underneath John's weight.

John moves his hips shallowly, careful to keep the knot inside Sherlock's hole. It's torturously slow but it burns so good after days without touching each other.

He bites Sherlock's neck, then licks the bruises, sucks on his pulse point and keeps up his rhythm until Sherlock clenches around his knot, finding release. John inhales the smell of the content Omega underneath him and his orgasm claims him moments after Sherlock's did.

He collapses onto Sherlock, rolling them to their side, keeping their bodies knotted together.

John wraps his arms around his partner, kissing his shoulder and then nuzzling his neck from behind.

"I love you, too," John murmurs and revels how Sherlock leans back into his body, how things between them are good again.

xXx

Even though he would never admit to it, Mycroft is rather impressed when not even twenty-four hours after his conversation with Mikhas the door to his momentary safe house opens and Nikolai enters. Anthea, still tall and beautiful but with more prominent cheekbones and dulled hair, follows in his wake.

They don't hug or indulge in any other form of overly sentimental social rituals. She nods, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. He nods back, sure that his eyes betray him, showing how glad he is to know his best soldier at his side again.

"We have to move you to another house," Nikolai explains in Russian. "We can't be too careful."

"I travel lightly nowadays," Mycroft jokes and swiftly follows the driver out into the cool night air.

xXx

When John visits the still comatose Harry on her fifth day in hospital, the doctor asks to see him.

"We will wake her from the coma tomorrow morning. It's essential you are there as a member of her family. We will also have a therapist ready so we can make the transition as smooth as possible for her."

John nods, both looking forward to and dreading Harry's awakening at the same time. He has no idea what to expect. Will she even realise it is real and not simply another hallucination?

Sherlock accompanies him the following morning, yet chooses to wait outside. He has been conducting experiments these past few days but then John didn't spend all his time with Harry either.

It will take a while for Harry to wake after they reversed the coma, John is aware of that, so he settles into the chair he considers his and waits.

Harry wakes slowly, blinking her eyes open which dart across the room, clearly confused.

"Hello Harry," John says as softly as possible. "You're in a hospital. You're safe. I'm really John, your brother. I'm here."

Harry turns towards him and considers him for long, torturous seconds. Her gaze is clearer; obviously the drugs are out of her system by now. John hopes that will make it easier.

"John?" she croaks and he moves closer, sitting on the edge of the mattress and takes her hand into his own.

"Yes, it's me."

She blinks at him, then screws up her face in disbelief. Her gaze flickers from him to the room at large, taking in the situation.

"You're in a hospital. You have been here for six days already. They needed to flush the drugs out of your system."

"No more drugs?" Harry asks faintly.

"No. No more."

Harry processes the news, swallows, thinks. It takes a lot out of John to merely sit without fidgeting as he is incredibly nervous.

"How old are you?" Harry asks out of the blue.

"Thirty-eight. You're thirty-four."

A pained sound rises in Harry's throat, high-pitched and dreadful, as she realises the extent of what John's answer entails and she starts shaking all over her body, her breath coming faster.

"Harry, listen to me, it will be alright, you hear me? You're safe now; no one can hurt you," John tries to calm her down but it is no use. He has seen many panic attacks in his life but seldom one as severe as this.

He presses the emergency button and moments later, a nurse bursts into the room - Bhabha probably ensured there would always be someone near. John barks out orders and the Beta obeys immediately, even though John has no jurisdiction.

Only when Harry is sedated does John notice Sherlock's presence in the room.

"Panic attack when she realised how much time has passed," John explains and flings himself into the chair.

"What do you need?" Sherlock asks and John shoots him a grateful look.

"Stay."

Sherlock nods and pulls up a second chair.

xXx

John reduces the hours he volunteers at the clinic and the SIS allows him to cut back his hours as well, so he can spend a lot of time with his sister over the next few weeks.

It's a slow process. Harry still panics quickly, even though the therapist clearly helps. John does what he can, telling Harry about the changes the world has undergone, about the Fall, about his role in everything. About Sherlock.

They tackle this in little bites; too much information upsets Harry but John has soon figured out where her limits are.

Five days after Harry woke up, Sherlock has his first new case. Well, the first new case he deemed interesting enough to take on. John tags along to the crime scene, if just to spend more time with his partner, yet he ends up being rather helpful when the victim seems to have been shot by a sniper from considerable distance.

It's the middle of the night and Sherlock sends him home while he wants to seek out different members of the homeless network. John has no doubt that Sherlock will spend most of the night working on the case and not in John's bed, which is why he doesn't wait up.

John is surprised when he wakes a while later to Sherlock slipping in under the covers.

"Sherlock?"

"Go back to sleep. I solved it - jealous ex-lover with military training. Lestrade has been informed."

John pulls Sherlock closer, half on top of him like always and Sherlock buries his head in the crook of John's neck. As always.

"Tell me all about it tomorrow," John mumbles, kissing Sherlock's hair and drifting off again, a warm feeling in his chest.

xXx

Mycroft and Anthea both perk up when they hear footsteps.

It is much too late for anyone to seek shelter underneath this particular bridge, especially since one homeless woman has already made herself at home on the bench near the water.

Mycroft strains his ears - he hears voices, but he is too far away to make out anything specific except that the new arrival is male and that the homeless woman answers him. He won't draw nearer; the risk of the man discovering him is far too great and he won't be thwarted so close to the end of their game of hide and seek.

For the past week and a half, Anthea and he have been constantly moving, aided by Mikhas and his organisation, thus avoiding detection.

The man leaves abruptly and everything is quiet again for several minutes. The buzz of Mycroft's disposable phone almost startles him.

_Everything is in place._

He glances at the text. "It's time," he tells Anthea and they emerge from their hiding place, passing the homeless woman who is either feigning sleep or snoring genuinely and loudly.

The sleek black car of Nikolai awaits them. Anthea hold his door open and slips in after he has entered the car.

"Ready, Mr Holmes?" Nikolai asks in Russian.

Mycroft nods, feeling the gravity of the situation weigh on him. Never one for sentimentality, the sensation is rather uncomfortable.

"Take us to the Russian Embassy."

xXx

**End Notes:** So there, no one needs to kill me… Everything's alright! Well, as alright as things can be with Mycroft seeking political asylum with the Russians. *shudders*

Also, thank you all so much for the positive feedback! It really means a lot :)


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